10000 Hours (Matthew 27:42, Part 2)
by LadyMaigrey
Summary: What is the point of survival, if damnation is assured; if every living day brings more pain than Hell could possibly contain? Why hold a friend's hand, when your very existence threatens their life? Why sleep in the midst of nightmares? Why wake to a drug-induced haze? Ah, but has not every Saint that existed under the Lord's gaze been plagued with doubt? Has not every Devil?
1. Chapter 1

**_NOTES:_**

I've been told it's bad manners to leave one's toys broken and not even attempt to fix them. So... this 30,000 word monster was born, and consumed all of my thoughts for the last 6 months.

The first part of this series was written before I watched Daredevil S3, and I tried hard to not let S3 influence this piece. That said, by sheer necessity, it is dealing with many of the same issues that Matt has gone through post-Midland Circle, so - in some way - this is a homage to the wonderful work of Erik Oleson and all the team.

Reading Part 1 is pretty necessary for following this.

Given the level of physical and psychological injury that was inflicted on Matt, this piece is quite heavy and angsty ... There will be light at the end of the tunnel though (or it might be a train *evil grin*)

* * *

_"If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up!" _\- Ecclesiastes 4:10

**01034**

She hurried along the corridor of the Royal Hospitality hotel towards Senator Ori's room, rummaging inside her handbag for the press-pass and sifting in her mind all the questions for the impending interview. Any arguments pertaining to the 2nd amendment would be easy for the senator to field, and frankly it was such an old chestnut, it wasn't even worth focusing on. No - Ori would be pushing his line on the dangers of the weapons ending up in the hands of criminals and out-of-control vigilantes, like the Punisher. As far as Karen was concerned - that was a much more contentious point, and not just for her personally but for a lot of New Yorkers living south of the 59th street. Whatever might be said about Frank's methods, he dealt a blow to the organised crime the likes of which was never seen in New York – certainly not through the work of the police or any of the multi-lettered agencies. Not to mention the less-sensational, but no-less meaningful, work of a certain Devil of Hell's Kitchen and that bulletproof guy up in Harlem.

The thought of Matt was disquieting. Her heartbeat sped up and she wiped her right palm, which was suddenly clammy, on her skirt. It was uncomfortably dark and curiously empty in the corridor, although the overhead downlights and the warmly-glowing wall lamps all seemed to be on. She heard movements of hotel guests behind closed doors, but they were all content to stay inside. The hall was long, and she was out of breath by the time she rounded its corner, but - finally - she was not alone. He was standing in the gloom in front of a door, halfway down a new corridor, staring at the opposite wall: a soldier at attention. Of course – the senator's protection detail. Anvil: mercenaries for hire, who come armed to the teeth. Oh the irony! She walked faster, looking at that profile. Surely he would've heard her by now, but strangely (for a guard!) he showed absolutely no interest. He also looked familiar. That wolflish profile, that nose that looked like it got broken several times … She reached the senator's door and stood looking in shock at Frank Castle's impassive face. He still made no sign that he saw her. It was making her feel dizzy.

"Frank …"

"You got this?" he spoke suddenly, still looking at some point in the middle distance.

She finally understood her elevated heart rate and dizziness: she was absolutely terrified.

He stepped aside with military precision, giving her access to the door. No keycard lock on it; there was just an ordinary round door handle. She reached for it with her left hand - her right felt heavy and numb – and turned it, stepping into the gloom beyond. She guessed it was a foyer of a luxury suite, but it was so dark in here that she couldn't orient herself. She extended her left hand out in front of her, afraid to bump into something, and walked on … The air was cold and heavy. There was a marshy smell in it, like a polluted section of the Hudson was flowing nearby, giving off a miasma that was metallic and nauseating. Somewhere closer - a faucet dripped into a half-full sink: big fat ponderous drops falling and splashing back. She kept walking. It was now so dark she could not see her extended hand, but she felt it trembling. Her entire body was trembling from the coursing adrenaline - all, except her heavy right hand. She saw the outline of a window, with moonlight or streetlight coming through it and falling on a tall figure standing in the middle of the room. She couldn't decide whether he was facing her or standing with his back turned, but he held his arms akimbo, and he must've been wearing something like an old cowboy jacket: it was shapeless around his torso, while his stretched-out arms were festooned with untidily-hanging tassels or ribbons. He was facing the window, she decided, and looking up at the moonlight with his head held high and cocked to one side. So she changed the angle of her approach, wanting to be respectful of his solitude, but as the silhouette of his profile came into her view, she understood he had been facing her after all. The tassels on his arms were moving, although she felt no breeze through the window. Some of them seemed to elongate and, as she stared, something detached from one, and she heard that liquid splash. Another splash and two more followed in quick succession. She tracked them down with her gaze, realising that the floor was wet, and she was standing in the wetness, and it was almost reaching the tops of her pumps. She was now right beside him, and they weren't tassels or ribbons on his arms, but strips of skin and meat and tendons torn from his bones; she could see moonlight shining between the radius and the ulna, glinting off the exposed wet musculature of his abdomen, highlighting the paleness of his ribs, the delicate froth of his lungs, and absorbed by the black clotting mass that was his heart. The blindfold hid his unseeing eyes, but his gaze crawled on the skin of her arm, and she finally looked down at her heavy, humming and exhausted right hand that was gripping the shaft from which nine claw-tipped leather braids hung and drank from the viscous lake, and she opened her mouth to scream …

… but jerked awake in the curved faux-leather armchair. Her left hand was clutching her laptop, while her right hand - having been jammed by the knees of her tucked up legs into the chair's side – felt entirely numb and foreign. The room was filled with shadows, but the bubble-headed lamp on the bedside table spread a pool of confident light from beneath its shade. The steady rhythmic blinking of the green light on a monitor proclaimed that everything was right in its narrow-scoped world. Since its domain started and ended with the heartbeat of the man sleeping in the bed, it went a fair way towards soothing Karen too. She hoped that, tonight at least, all the nightmares were hers and wished that she could make a deal with someone for their permanent custody, even if it was the type of deal made at midnight on the crossroads. Unfortunately, she did not believe in demons – not the supernatural ones, anyway - and she has had enough of the human variety. It was the latter kind whose torture continued to assail Matt's mind and body despite the defensive cocktail of Prazosin and Fentanyl in his bloodstream.

She unfurled her legs, wiggling her toes through the pins and needles, which were warming up to their act in her feet and calves, before they put on the real show in her hand. She pushed out of the armchair and stood slightly swaying, grimacing, waiting for her brain to wake up enough to, at least, assure her balance. She then hooked her handbag from the floor, walked towards the bed and sat on the chair next to it, looking at sleeping Matt.

God, he was so gaunt! Cheekbones stood out in unnatural relief on his face. His ordinarily-full lips, so expressive in wryness and humour, were now thin and conveyed only pain, even deep in his sleep. Eyes were sunk into the shadow-drowned sockets, and lines deepened their corners. His breath - even with the aid of the oxygen flowing through the cannula positioned in his nostrils - rasped. He lay on the gel-pad mattress, his torso and shoulders covered in elastic bandages, as if the ancient process of mummification has been half carried out on his still-living body.

Karen shook her head to rid herself of the morbid aftereffects of her dream and looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was Matt's talking alarm clock: the one that spoke the time when a button was pressed. Foggy brought it. It seemed that every other day he attempted to bring something of Matt's into this hospital room, trying to force the vestiges of Matt's life into the antiseptic space that was filled to the brim with his pain. He began by migrating the few pictures of Matt's father that he found inside the notorious chest. He then brought the clock, the lamp (having first replaced the long-burned out lightbulb), the audiobook player with the fancy top-quality speakers, his soft washed-out clothes, silk bed-sheets and expensive towels. After that, given the obvious lack of knickknacks or any other personal touches in Matt's apartment, Foggy had to get creative. The cushions from the couch were piled in the corner of the room. One of Matt's black suits, replete with shirt and tie, hung on a hanger in the tiny closet. Karen finally put a soft foot down when Foggy started to haul in tomes of old Law Reviews, which weren't even Matt's – they belonged to Foggy himself - but which Foggy insisted had to reside 'for the sake of appearances' on the bookshelf in Matt's office, and which remained there, forgotten, even after their partnership dissolved.

"Foggy, he'll get home. He made it this far. We will get him home."

She held Foggy as he sobbed, but he stopped turning the already-crammed room into a mausoleum. Yet, they both knew that every day was a fight for Matt's body and spirit - and they were barely more than sideline spectators.

The clock said: 3:18 am. Three more hours - if that - until the night-time dose of drugs wore off enough for her to need to pay careful attention to the shift of his eyes under the veined lids; to the hitch in his breathing. She knew that by the time the EEG frequency's scribble on the monitor sped up sufficiently to raise the alarm at the nurse's station, it was going to be far too late to help him reach a peaceful awakening. So – no falling asleep again, as much as she would have dearly loved to despite the threat of her own dreams. She should not have done it earlier either, even though she strategically positioned the armchair so that any attempt to open the door would've awakened her. She had few illusions about having enough time to act though.

The lack of sleep was definitely catching up with her. She knew it was catching up with Foggy too, as they attempted to juggle the 24/7 vigils and their paying jobs. Neither of them could afford to end up on the unemployment line – not with the extra pressure of carrying Matt's rent and the fucking hospital bills (or rather the bank loan they undersigned in order to pay for the said fucking hospital bills), while Foggy argued with, cajoled and threatened Matt's health insurance company. The corporate arseholes stringently maintained that his policy did not cover experimental surgical treatments, and, as a flow-on from that, they refused to cover the physiotherapy, medication, or the hospital room and board. Fuckers.

So – that left just them. Foggy had to maintain a reasonable level of pretence of being alert and working during daylight hours, though he, too, spent his share of nights sitting on the floor of Matt's room, surrounded by paperwork – and the cushions - tapping away madly on his laptop. Still, it was Karen who had, comparatively, the most flexibility in her work-life (and the most understanding boss), so it was she who spent most nights by Matt's side.

She spent most of her days there, too.

She watched as both the man and the Devil consumed each other in a tidal wave of pain and rage and terror. She listened as he screamed and cursed at himself, at God, at her, while he fought against the soft restraints hugging his arms in an effort to escape the hell his memory wove around him. She saw his iron-willed determination, that still got him through the agonising therapy, crack at the end of each interminable day, and he pleaded for the drugs to dull his mind and senses. She witnessed his humiliation, when the nurses came to assist him into the washroom, though she did her best to spare him this knowledge by making excuses to leave.

When she went home, it was with every intention to sleep, to work. More often than not though, she simply grabbed a shower, a change of clothes, and returned to the hospital. Ironic - given the effort she put into exorcising Matt Murdock and the Devil of Hell's Kitchen from her mind over the past year, relegating them both to the grainy newspaper print. And yet, it was as if Matt's blood seeped through the skin of her palms, ensnaring her to the crippled soul inside his broken body, as she knelt by him on the concrete …

* * *

**00000**

… Her ears picked up the approaching sirens, begging Matt's God that these were the EMTs. His hand in hers was ice-cold and his pulse beneath the steel band at his throat was an insignificant stutter. Her long coat, which they carefully tucked around his nakedness, obviously did little to counteract the heat loss from shock.

The door on the other side of the warehouse crashed open and Foggy ran in, followed by a man and a woman in coveralls, carrying heavy bags and rolling a gurney between them. They both took in the pool of blood congealing around the scourge; his eyes rounding, face blanching, mouth falling open; her kneeling by their charge, placing her own fingers on his neck, and pulling up the folds of the coat. Her tongue gave a nervous lick to her lips as she glanced back to the black liquid, and then she unbuckled her bag. Her partner gently pushed Karen aside to take her place.

"BP 42 over 28, cyanotic extremities and soft tissues …unresponsive to light."

"Clotting normally, no arterial breaches ..."

"Can't raise the vein… OK, got it... Let's get him on the cardiac monitor."

"We treat it like a full-thickness burn – 18% TBSA. Take him to the Weill-Cornell…"

Their measured movements and soft voices were hypnotic, and suddenly all Karen wanted to do was to lie down and sleep.

"… Ma'am? Do you know his blood type? Ma'am?"

She blinked. "A-positive," Foggy supplied from behind her. "He is blind. He won't respond to light."

The paramedic nodded.

"Are we going to fully dress that?"

"….Improvise… just lay the 8 by 12s and we'll use wrap to hold them in place. Lacerations and rope burns to wrists and ankles – deal with them on the move."

"OK, watch that chain on him. Three, two, one, lift."

The struts squealed as the gurney was raised onto its wheels, and Karen came back to herself with a start.

"I am going with him!"

"Ma'am – we need for you to answer some questions."

She turned around and was astonished to find a dozen cops in the warehouse - random rays puncturing dark corners.

Karen pointed to Foggy, who had already been accosted by two of the cops, "He knows as much as I do. I am not leaving Matt," she repeated.

The cop studied her for a moment.

"Are you family?"

She shook her head.

"Got ID on you?"

Karen rummaged in the pocket of her jeans, pulling out her press card. The cop jotted the details down, without giving any indication of recognition, and jerked his head.

"Go. Make yourself available for questioning in the morning."

She looked across at Foggy again. He was pale and held his arms uncharacteristically crossed against his chest, instead of conveying his usual brand of expansive trustworthiness, but he appeared to be answering with his usual professional aplomb. Besides, Frank was adamant that lying to the cops was futile. The only protective untruth he permitted concerned the origin of the phone call: Frank insisted that he was the one to have alerted Karen of Matt's abduction. He also took her phone, to eliminate the obvious evidence. Micro was going to try and take care of the rest. It didn't leave her 100% clear of potential charges as an accomplice but, given her status as a member of the press and Foggy's – as a member of the Bar, chances were high that the police would ignore them. So far – it appeared he was correct.

She ran after the EMTs.

* * *

Every minute, punctuated by the hectic arrhythmic bleeps of the cardiac monitor, seemed to stretch into an hour. The male was in the driver's seat. The female – Justine, as her name-tag indicated - was in the back by the locked-in gurney, with Karen - on a fold-out seat by the door. Justine did not ask questions: any curiosity was either hidden by professionalism or destroyed by the years of observing the wreckage of human depravity.

"You said 'Weill something'… Where are you taking him?"

"Weill-Cornell. Part of New York Presbyterian. They have the best burn-treatment unit in the state. While his injuries are not from burns per-se, there are similarities in… the presentation. Better, in some ways. We don't have to worry about smoke-related toxicity." She gave Karen a tiny smile, "We'll be there soon. Hang in there. He is."

A slight increase in the rhythm of the bleeps and a small shift of the blanket were their only warnings.

Matt strained up, his chest encountering the protective restraints that kept him anchored to the gurney. His breath hitched as his arm flailed, reaching to grasp the oxygen mask with his hand. His fingers brushed the metal of the collar, clutched at it, pulled, slipped; he pushed his head back into the thin padding, baring his throat, gasping, trying to arch his back, still held down by the restraints. He uttered a desperate half-choked groan and began to fight the straps in earnest.

"Shit!" the paramedic grasped his biceps and bore down in an attempt to keep him still. Her touch, necessarily harsh, ratcheted up his struggle. He twisted his torso to dislodge her and the restraints, and rasped out a scream as the sideways movement must've shifted the dressing against the open wound.

"Matt, no, stay still, please stay still, you can't move, you'll make it worse …" - Karen was beside the paramedic, trying to grab hold of Matt's hands without touching the bandages on his wrists; he fought her to grasp the sides of the gurney and attempted to lift his legs against the straps hugging his thighs - it forced another wheeze from his throat.

The paramedic let go of Matt and reached for a syringe.

"Matt, come on, it's me, it's Karen. Listen to my voice. You are safe, we are taking you to the hospital, but you need to stay still!" her voice shook in an echo of his tears that slipped down the lashes of his closed eyes. Trickles of blood leached from beneath his back.

He stilled.

"Karen …" - whispering, drawing breath in short sharp intakes - "Please… Karen… Make it stop."

He jerked sideways again. His eyelids twitched and fluttered, showing white underneath.

The cardiac monitor squealed.


	2. Chapter 2

**_"_**_Your hands fashioned and made me, and now you have destroyed me altogether."_ – Job 10:8

**00003**

That was the second time Matt's heart arrested. The EMT shocked it out of the fibrillation with one jolt and a round of chest compressions – 1 minute 18 seconds. He did not regain consciousness.

Karen refused to let go of his hand, until her shoulders were clasped gently but insistently in the hospital's ER, and she was pulled away with the words "let us help him". The last thing she saw, before the pair of hands steered her out of the double-doors, was a wine-red bag being hung next to the saline.

She huddled in the corner of the waiting room and shook. She thought it was from the cold since her coat was left behind - either in the warehouse or in the ambulance (not that she cared: it was soaked with his blood, becoming a symbol of the outrage inflicted on him). She tried to focus on how she could do more to help Matt – perhaps reach out to someone in her extensive network of contacts - but her brain refused to cooperate. Instead, it just kept presenting her with a kaleidoscope of grey-tinged skin, red-dewed torn flesh, and shocked brown eyes unable to comprehend a cessation to the torture.

There was now a familiar presence on the seat next to her, a needed shoulder to soak her tears. She couldn't remember crying with such an uncontrollable chest-bursting force of grief and guilt since the death of her brother. For a moment, it was Kevin's face she saw above the steel collar, and somehow that brought her relief, for that death was already mourned, if not paid-for. The gut-twisting uncertainty of the now crashed over her again in a fresh flood, and Foggy wrapped his arms around her tighter, occasionally raising a hand to wipe at his own eyes.

A white-coated figure with a cloth mask pulled down around his neck approached them, and they stood up in the universal gesture of preparation to receive the verdict. He waved them down and sat next to them himself.

"Mr Nelson? I understand you have the power of attorney to make healthcare decisions for Mr Murdock?"

Karen looked at Foggy in surprise.

"Yeah, I can't believe I still am, but yeah – Matt did ask me a few years back to be his proxy and the executor of his… umm … how is Matt? What can you tell us? Is he awake?"

The surgeon sighed.

"Your friend is in a lot of trouble. Our immediate concern is to address the blood loss and the inflammation, which is interfering with his breathing. We are also taking all preventative measures to avoid sepsis due to infection. His heart is under a lot of strain – it has arrested during the transfer and, again, in the ER - although he responded to defibrillation well both times. This is not…. entirely unexpected in this situation, but my concern is his pain sensitivity. We have to be cautious with analgesic use in the conditions of extreme haemorrhage and compromised cardiothoracic function, but the dose we gave him should have ensured a relative lack of sensation. However, he appears to be extremely sensitive to pain, or, perhaps, has a tolerance for morphine…"

The surgeon's eyes took on an investigative sharpness as he bored them into Foggy's.

"… Either way he started to regain consciousness, shortly after arriving, and it became very clear that pain management was insufficient. I suspect the resultant surge of adrenaline in his system triggered the second cardiac event, as it did the first. He is under full sedation right now to prevent any reoccurrence, but we do not yet know if there's been any permanent damage to his heart, or other organs."

The idea of Matt having developed a tolerance for morphine – or any drug – was vehemently denied by Foggy.

The idea that the man who could shrug off the punishment of knives and fists and guns of Hell's Kitchen - was now in such agony that sedation was his only refuge – that was utterly horrifying to Karen.

She grasped at that most essential question out of the wailing myriad in her head:

"Doctor, you haven't told us– will he live?"

The surgeon paused first, clearly assessing his words.

"I wish I had certainty for you, but it is simply too difficult to say at this stage. The trauma his body sustained is … extensive. But he does appear to be in exceptional physical health otherwise, which bodes in his favour. There is a chance that the cardiac arrhythmia is a temporary complication, triggered, as I already said, by shock and his response to pain, which we have now addressed. We will need to continue treating his injuries, keeping up the fluids, monitoring his heart … and praying."

"Fat lot of good praying did, when he was having the skin peeled off him with a whip!" – Karen looked up at the ceiling, hoping for gravity to force the tears back into the ducts and the chocking sensation out of her windpipe.

"It is small comfort, but I hope whoever was responsible for this will be brought to justice. Meanwhile, we will do all we can to keep him here with us, with or without God's help."

He stood up, and they followed suit.

"We will proceed with hyperbaric oxygen therapy as soon as he is sufficiently stabilised, as it offers the best chance of bringing down the swelling and keeping the remaining muscle tissue functional. The next 72 hours are critical. At a certain stage he will have to undergo a skin grafting procedure - possibly more than one - but exactly how and when to proceed there will ultimately depend on… aahh… the recovery prognosis, which is difficult to assess at the moment… Mr Nelson – as his medical proxy, there's quite a bit of paperwork for you to fill out. I understand it's been a long night for you – for both of you – but the sooner it's done… "

Foggy interrupted, "Yes, that's fine… Doctor, how long will he remain under sedation? And can we see him?"

"At this point, it is uncertain. In 72 hours, we should know more…."

"Wait a minute…" – Karen jumped in – "… you talk about his injuries, like… it's not sure thing… Like he may not heal even if… he makes it past all the other … complications?"

"Ms…?"

"Page. It's Karen Page."

"Ms Page, you have to understand… muscle tissue is not as easy to recover as skin - even with a graft. The deeper into the body the injury goes, the greater the area of the injury, the less the body has to work with to regenerate. Some recovery is possible, but large sections of the musculature in his shoulders and back have simply been stripped away, along with the tendons, nerves and blood vessels. In some areas the damage reaches down to the bones. The trauma - the blood loss and the swelling - are all continuing to do further damage as we speak. We are doing our best to arrest that process, but exactly how much muscle mass he will retain is uncertain at this point, and the full recovery of the lost volume is… not possible… I am sorry to say this, but, even in the best case scenario, it is going to severely compromise his mobility."

"Are you saying… he is going to be … bed-ridden? For the rest of his life?"

"Not necessarily bed-ridden. There are quite a few options for mobility-aid devices …"

"A _wheelchair_?"

"Ms Page… this is not something to be concerned with right now. Let's get him through the next 72 hours… You'll be able to see him soon. One of the nurses will come and get you."

His smile was weak, and full of sympathy, and Karen wanted to drive her fist through it, if she could trust her hands not to shake and her vision not to treble. She sank into the chair, as the surgeon walked away, curling up on herself under the weight of Matt's wounds.


	3. Chapter 3

_"And the smoke of their torment goes up forever and ever; they have no rest day and night, those who worship the beast and his image, and whoever receives the mark of his name."_ – Revelation 14:11

**00226**

Enveloped in blood and fire. Or acid. He didn't know. He couldn't _see_.

He could hear though.

Their voices were calm as the acid (or fire) was poured down his back, forced into his throat. A clawed hand clasped his chest, then went through the skin, between the ribs, grabbed his heart and squeezed it like a stress-ball, shaking it, playing with it, thick fingers twinging the connecting veins and arteries, send electric shocks down them, incinerating him from inside, as his flesh was burned away on the outside.

And still the voices were calm, even kind, as they went about doing their job, their calling. Just like he thought he was - in his arrogance of assumption. In the end, the joke was on him. The Good Book turned out to be more literal than the theologians knew. Did his patron saint not spell it out? They will throw the worthless servant into the blazing furnace, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth. And helplessness. He forgot to mention that.

There were periods when the bitter-prickly smell of blood and chemicals lessened, or he simply grew more aware of other sounds and scents: achingly-familiar voices, softness of lemon-scented soap, subtle cologne, earthy purity of wool and silk. He missed them. He always missed them, even when (especially when) he embraced his misery and loneliness, exalting in his sacrifice: for their own protection, for the sake of his work with which he expiated (and indulged in) the sin of his rage …But now these essential markers of their presence, more dear and intimate to him than any product of eyesight could possibly have been, were perverted into a torment. It made him hate them.

And still, the voices were kind as they came to pull him away from that tiny window, and into the depths of the fog and torture. He could hear them humming even as they slipped their knives under his remaining flesh, pairing and lifting and peeling – the paradoxical lack of pain in that very moment purified the horror and revulsion of the stretch and tear of every parting cell.

Even this relief from pain was not lasting. They twisted him, manhandled him, and ran their knives (or were they claws?) across his shoulders, along his spine; stabbed into him on their whim and for their pleasure, and then left him to burn, as demons are wont to do.

His senses were rising again. Clearing. He girded himself against the despair of disappointment, but could not help reaching out with the mental tendrils, finding a pulse – her pulse - and setting his own heartbeat by it (although, how it was that he still had a heartbeat, he had no idea – seems at least some of God's ways remained mysterious even at this final revelation). The gentle thumping he heard had sped-up, and he realised that he was not hearing it, but feeling it through the skin of his hand.

_Matt_... _Matt, wake up… come back to us… Matt… _

Cruel … There was no waking up from eternal torment …

But he couldn't help following her voice, and, amazingly, he was still rising, and now there was another voice.

_Yeah, Matt, come on, wake your lazy arse up. You've been lying around for over a week now. You probably have a rotting pile of balcony-grown veges and casseroles outside your office door from all your non-paying clients. Unless your practice became ridiculously more successful in the last year, in which case, I'd have to suspect that you were selling your body as well as your skills as a litigator..._

_Foggy! _

_Hey, I am all about providing appropriate humour-wrapped incentives!_

_Not sure you would know 'appropriate' even if it slapped you!_

_Now _that_ would definitely not be appropriate…_

He was still mostly-convinced that this was a mirage, but the lure was irresistible and he gave in to the temptation of curling his fingers over the back of the hand clasping his. His fingertips encountered skin, side of a knuckle, metal band of a thin silver ring – its surface a framework of minute scratches and pits; he felt the pulse speed-up further, a hitch of breath, a drop of warm liquid falling on his forearm.

"Matt…" there was a smile in her voice, beyond the liquid.

He extended the field of his senses up and to her face, but his focus fractured, as if the mental machinery behind his radar had foundered with rust. He could not pick up the shifts in the air currents, nor the elastic music of twitching muscles that made up his image of faces. Beyond that, the stimuli, especially the sounds, were a confusing mess, and even tuning them out – an action that was as automatic to him as breathing – was hard work. Sorting them was impossible at this point.

He returned his focus to the tactile inputs, and found that hell was still there, behind him, within him... muted, patient, and terrifying in the essential burning _absence _where nerves and muscles should've been. His senses short-circuited, pushing at the wall of flaming nothingness. There was a crushing weight on his chest, and he wrenched his mind towards it, finding sandpaper straps that squeezed the air out and immobilised him. He moved his lips and felt the skin cracking. He could not get enough air past his throat to speak.

"Breathe, Mr Murdock. Take deep breaths. Feelings of anxiety or panic are not unexpected. You need to try to relax and breathe." - A new voice was on the other side of him. He felt the movement of a needle in his arm, tasted that same bitter-chemical scent near him, and forced a desperate whisper of negation past his lips.

The unknown man paused.

The words triggered a memory: shameful and pathetic as it was, he was once familiar with panic, and it had rendered him blinder than the chemicals that scorched his retinas. Stick, of course, had trained him to handle it. Just as he was trained to mould his body around a gut punch and force it to do his bidding, despite the bile flooding his mouth. Under Stick's tutelage he had banished the choking fear; barred the door to it from his life and memory, save for the depths of fever-filled nightmares that could not be recalled after the sweat had soaked the sheets.

Stick would've been disgusted with him, but nightmares roosted in his waking world now.

Matt pulled his attention from the stirring hell behind him, and forced it towards the muscles surrounding his lungs, working a trickle of air past them as he counted to five, before releasing it to another count of five. He barely made it, but the second breath came infinitesimally easier, and so did the third, and the weight on his chest shrunk. His awareness expanded to include the cold sweat trickling down his face, the plastic tubes in his nostrils, the thick layers of gauze (not punishing bonds) that were wrapped around his torso and over his shoulders, and the thin fingerbones being crushed in his hand, the ring imbedding itself in his skin.

He sprung his hand open and heard Karen hiss as she flexed her fingers, before placing her other hand just above his wrist.

He wanted to weep at her touch. Stick would've definitely been appalled.

"I am sorry," he managed to croak out, swallowed, and squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing at the razers slicing at his larynx.

"Oh Jesus, Matt … You have no clue how good it is to see you back among the living!" Foggy's voice was somewhere above his head. He wanted to tell Foggy that he still couldn't be entirely sure that he _was_ among the living, but talking hurt too much and took too much energy away from keeping his breathing and heart rate steady against the furnace at his back.

The voice of the unknown man sounded again - dusty and slightly accented.

"Mr Murdock – there's still a lot of swelling around your trachea, and you were intubated for some days. It will make talking difficult, but this will rectify itself soon. You are at the NY Presbyterian hospital and you are safe. Do you … understand why you need to be in a hospital right now?

Responding, even just by nodding his head, felt strange: as if it's been years since he was perceived as a human being worthy of being asked a question.

"You have some extensive injuries, but you are stable. If you are feeling very disoriented right now, it is due to the aftereffects of sedation – this will pass. It is absolutely imperative that you do not try to sit up, or make any large movements. There are some decisions to make regarding your medical treatment, but these will wait for you to rest ..."

Matt moved his head.

"You'd rather know now?"

Nod.

"OK, but first I need you to indicate to me how much pain you are in. If zero is no pain, and ten - as bad as you can imagine, where are you at?"

He didn't have to imagine, only remember. This thought pulled with it another and, all of a sudden, the pressure was back in his chest. He growled a mental _no_ at himself, and reasserted control over his traitorous diaphragm muscles. Then he raised his hand, folding down two fingers.

"I don't need you to be stoic, Mr Murdock. I need you to tell me the truth."

He was trying to ignore the truth in favour of breathing but seceded the point, unfolding all the fingers on the one hand and raising the other with the index finger extended.

"Thank you. You need to let me know if the pain becomes too much to handle, or if you feel nauseous. This is important, Mr Murdock. Right now is not the time for you to be testing your pain tolerance abilities any further than they already are."

The man again waited for Matt to acknowledge his words with a nod.

"My name is Dr Wali. I am an orthopaedic surgeon with a background in neurophysiology. Mr Nelson contacted me with the details of your case…"

"Let's call things what they are: I damn near broke down your door in the middle of the night with a bunch of scans, and proceeded to harass you until you either relented or called the police."

Foggy was smiling, but, with the next words, Matt could hear the barely-concealed discomfort in the surgeon's voice.

"… be that as it may, I am here to direct your treatment. Your case is quite unique, Mr Murdock – not just in the … uh... circumstances and specifics of your injuries, but your physiology. Have you ever had any MRIs or other neuronal scans done? No? Well, the results are quite fascinating! It appears that your body possesses a remarkable compliment of sensory nerves, while the brain activity that is associated with activation of these nerves heavily involves your visual cortex. These sorts of changes are not unheard of – especially in the cases of a loss of sensory function, such as sight - but the level of neural reorganisation in your case is, frankly, unprecedented!"

The man's obvious professional pride and passion notwithstanding, Matt stiffened at the brutal invasion of his innermost privacy, and his body howled and burned in response.

"What does it have to do with my injuries?" - Anger distracted him from the pain of speaking. He could tell that the sentiment was understood and acknowledged by the lowered timbre and volume of the responding voice.

"It gives strong hope of your body's ability to recover. The MRIs have shown that the level of nerve death in the injured areas is not as grievous as could be expected, simply due to their proliferation. Given appropriate therapeutic conditions, I believe that regeneration is possible, at least to a functional degree. Nerve restoration is the most complicated piece of the puzzle in extensive muscle damage, and is usually met with poor success rates but, in your case, there's a strong reason to expect a much better outcome."

The surgeon paused and licked his lips.

"The other piece of the puzzle is the restoration of the muscle volume itself, and the network of blood vessels to support it. The area of damage in your shoulders and back is …large … and it impedes your mobility and even breathing right now …"

The hand that still rested lightly on his forearm lifted and slipped underneath his hand, slotting long fingers between his, but not clasping – letting him choose the level of pressure and comfort he needed. He read trust in her skin and grasped at it.

" … There has been some success in, essentially, creating a kind of scaffolding from donor tissue, for natural growth to occur. Sometimes the outcomes have been remarkable, with 50-80% muscle regeneration. However, you have to understand that these techniques are cutting-edge, experimental… with definite risks."

Karen interrupted, "but you are saying that this…can fix most of the damage? Matt will be able to … to ... "

"In the best case scenario, provided the donor tissue is not rejected by his body, and the vascularization and innervation takes place, Mr Murdock may be able to regain near-full range of movement. However… this process will also be extremely uncomfortable… especially for you, Mr Murdock. Your physiology is a curse, as well as a blessing in this regard. As I said, you have many active nerves still present at the site of your injuries…. And that includes the pain receptors. If we start down this road, the required surgery, the muscular regeneration, the physical therapy - all these will be likely to cause a great deal of both acute and background pain. …"

The doctor's voice suddenly sounded distorted to Matt, its volume fluctuating, fading in and out among the frantic bass drum of his heart, the roar of blood in his ears, and a deep voice chuckling in merriment. He bore down with all his will to push these invaders aside and clear his line of focus.

"…Mr Murdock… I have no idea, how you survived what happened to you – how _anyone_ could've survived it – but you - you especially…"

The memories broke through his willpower and Karen's hand, and came pouring out of the hell-fire in a reel of squelching and slipping sounds as the metal claws methodically tore his flesh to pieces. He fought them, with the same desperate passion of fighting the ropes, and the same hopeless result. They swirled over him, rebuilding the warehouse around him, deafening him to Karen's voice calling his name, pleading with him to just _breathe_. He couldn't breathe. He was drowning under the smells of leather and blood and Fisk's arousal. His heart vibrated with anticipation of the next blow of the scourge, which would take him one more excruciating step towards his senseless pathetic slow death.

The demons clapped their hands as they pulled him into their bitter-chemical embrace.


	4. Chapter 4

_"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." – _Psalms 147:3

**00231 **

"I can't make this decision for him!"

Foggy paced between the window and the door, his hands flitting from clasping himself around his chest, to running through the mess he already made of his hair.

"C'mon Karen, you know what Matt is like at the best of times: won't be told what to do. He always turns that great litigator brain of his on, and comes up with some hell of a reasonable-sounding excuse, but you know what's underneath all that? The way I figure it, for years since he lost his sight, and his dad, his life was controlled by others, and he never knew if they meant well or were just cogs in a system. So – he went his way, always did things as he saw them, never asked for advice, cause he doesn't really trust anyone to put his interests front and centre."

"He trusted you enough to give you power of attorney."

"Yeah, except it was my idea. Well, I was the one who said that he should have the power of attorney for me, as we were going into business together, and he was my best friend. I trusted him because he really _got _me, you know – more than my family did, most of the time. He agreed, and that was when he suggested that I should be his because… well, he doesn't really have anyone else… But, it was just him being practical! I don't think he ever actually thought that it would come into effect. Not like this."

"I think you might be underestimating how far ahead Matt thought, given what he was doing."

Foggy collapsed into a chair next to Karen and thumped his head down on the table of the little consultation-slash-meeting-room that they had snuck into.

"Jesus. He can't even remain conscious for more than ten minutes without losing it," his voice sounded hollow as it echoed off the table's surface.

"You know what Dr Wali said: it's probably the side-effects of the drugs they used to sedate him in the first place – it can cause hallucinations. If he is still seeing or feeling what… what has been done to him … But they won't use that anymore, and they are giving him other stuff to help … settle him."

"I'd never thought I'd see the day when Matt Murdock needed meds just to stay lucid."

"No… but… Foggy, we both knew that what he was doing might one day lead to… this, or something like this. Isn't that partly why we walked away? It wasn't just the secrets and the lies, and him shoving us away. I think we were afraid to have to stand by and … just watch."

Foggy turned his head towards her without lifting it.

"He sure pulled enough dickbrained moves with us to deserve a good arse kicking, but, maybe, if we … I don't know …" He didn't finish - he was pretty sure that Karen was beating herself up with the same stick. Instead, he grasped at straws: "… maybe we can wait a couple of days. Maybe he'll come around a bit more."

"Dr Wali…."

Foggy was back up and pacing.

"Yeah, I know what he said! The window for the likelihood of a successful outcome is narrow. I just … I don't know what Matt would want! A week ago, I would've said he would do anything he could to get back to… to what he was doing… and, fuck, given everything he had already endured for it – being cut-up and concussed and nearly-gutted – I would've said 'well, he's been through all that, he'll get through this too'. But, I never understood how much he had to endure to stay in it. What was it that the doc said? 'Low pain threshold, high pain tolerance'? He doesn't know the half of it! We didn't know the half of it! And now, after some bloodthirsty vengeful arsehole inflicted such a level of agony on him that … that it drove him literally out of his mind… How am I supposed to make a decision that will put him through even more of it? You said it yourself: he feels the torture still. If the doc is right, and the recovery will be that difficult and painful, and many of the pain meds won't even be an option because they'll interfere with the therapy, or whatever, then how can we say that what Matt experiences will be an illusion, or a hallucination? It sure as hell won't be! No matter how many times they alter the meds or pump him full of anti-depressants."

He pressed his palms against the window-glass, looking out on the grey afternoon and seeing nothing but a writhing figure on the hospital bed.

"His body might get put together, Karen – might! But how is his mind gonna fare? We may put him through this hell and completely break what's left of his sanity, and it may all be for nothing. The doc was pretty clear about that: he never tried it on an injury that's so… extensive."

Karen sat slumped over the table, with her elbows on the surface, her chin resting on her hands, her eyes wide and red from too much coffee and no sleep. Foggy figured he didn't look much better, and it wasn't their first go on this fruitless merry-go-round. Instead of continuing, Karen jumped off onto a tangent, "How did you find him? The doc I mean. You never told me…"

Foggy rubbed his forehead.

"Marci has this case – well, she was involved in it – only a little, just doing some research… A surgeon helped a kid get his leg fixed after a motocross accident – that's like a motorbike race on mud. It sounds like a totally looney sport, but the kid was quite good at it, apparently, until his calf got shredded. Anyway, Dr Wali maintained that he was able to fix the damage, and, I suspect, he did. The kid's parents though… see, they were hoping that this accident would put an end to the kid's hobby, and when it didn't… well, they claimed that Dr Wali botched the operation and misled the kid – gave him a false sense of confidence in his injured leg. I don't know, maybe the kid was just too impatient to get back to it … Anyway, the leg wasn't strong enough: he tore that muscle, lost control of the machine, and broke his neck."

"Jesus… Poor kid! So… did the parents sue, and your firm represented Dr Wali?"

Foggy was silent for several seconds before responding, "Not Dr Wali. The parents. We represent the parents."

Karen sat still for a moment and then jolted.

"Foggy! You can get disbarred!"

"Probably not disbarred… I didn't …_promise_ him anything. I couldn't anyway. Not my case. Not even Marci's case. I just pleaded with him. Lots. The guy seems to have a heart or, maybe, it's just that he got hooked on the challenge, once he agreed to look at the scans… Whatever. He is on board, and that's all that matters. As far as the Bar is concerned, if it comes out, I'll probably get off with only a warning or, maybe, a suspension."

"You'd lose your job!"

He grinned, "Well, you know I always have an alternative on standby. I'll just become a butcher - make mum and dad happy, have my own shop. You'd never ever run out of delicious cold cuts in your fridge then, so, hey, don't look so shocked."

Karen got up, walked over to the window and wrapped her arms around him, laying her head on his shoulder. They remained still and quiet for long minutes, holding each other and the decision that coalesced between them.

"Matt really was behaving like an arsehole," Karen murmured.

"Yep, total douchebag. He is still my best friend though. And you still love him."

"He is still Daredevil. That's who he chose to be."

"I think he has a more fatalistic attitude about it, being Catholic and all."

"Either way, it's his fight - to win, or to lose. And maybe he will have God on his side, but, even if he doesn't, he has us, Foggy. We can't be the ones to stand in his way."

Foggy squeezed her to himself.

* * *

**00382**

"Foggy, why are you carrying a gun?"

Foggy started up from his spot on the floor by Matt's bed.

"You are awake! And you are talking!"

Something between 'rasping' and 'hissing' would've been a closer description to what Matt believed he sounded like, but that didn't answer his question.

"Why? You hate guns. Has he… has anyone… threatened you? Or Karen? Where's Karen?"

His heart pounded.

"Whoa! It's OK, buddy, it's OK, we are fine. Karen's fine. I talked her into heading home for a bit; at least to get a few hours' sleep and a good meal … and, anyway, how did you know? It's not like the gun is just lying around in the open!"

"I can smell it. It's new – fresh oil, metal polish, no residue buildup, but you've been firing it. Lots. It's on your hands."

He heard Foggy raise his hands and look at them, then shake his head and mutter "I'll never get used to this."

"You shouldn't have to get used to this. You shouldn't be here. It's not safe for either of you."

Much of what he was getting was still fuzzed over by the sensory equivalent of static, but even though he couldn't quite make out Foggy's heartbeat, there was no mistaking the anger in his voice.

"Well Matt, glad you brought that up, buddy. We had a lot of time to think about this, while we sat around wondering if we ever got to see you open your eyes, and you know what conclusion we came to? It isn't your fucking call to make! Unless you want us out of this room, and your life, because you just can't stand to… to hear our heartbeats anymore! … Or whatever is the appropriate analogy when it comes to your senses! In which case, sure Matt - fine. We'll get out and stay out. But don't you dare make it about our safety! Not while you are lying in a hospital, fresh out from spending two weeks in the ICU, much of it on life support. As far as the gun is concerned – yeah, I hate the fucking thing, and I am not anywhere near as good with it as with a baseball and bat. But I've been practicing, and I recon I am good enough now to make sure no one walks in through that door and attempts to finish off my best friend. Not without putting at least a couple bullets in them!"

Foggy took a deep breath before wrapping up his impromptu closing argument.

"And, yes Matt, I still think of you as my best friend, and, while I reserve the right to, one day, tell you that you behaved like a complete horse's arse, I will admit that I should not have helped you create the distance between us, and I am sorry. I am really profoundly shamefacedly sorry."

The barrage of words hit Matt like cold water, and, for just a moment, he forgot the steady build-up of flaming agony gathering behind the opioid blockade. For the first time in what felt like months, he was awake, aware and completely present in the _now_, and the _now_ was not a seething nightmare seeping through his fingers into his brain. The _now_ was the solid reliable Foggy offering his presence, forgiveness, and promising safety, and Matt was shocked and ashamed of the desperate need that arose within him in response.

It was almost a relief when the demons whispered that safety was an illusion; his current pain – only a brief intermission to the real torment that still awaited him in the future, be it from Fisk or some other criminal.

"You can't protect me," he whispered.

"Why? Because we don't have superbat senses?"

Foggy glanced up.

"Shit, Matt… your pulse is going way up again. We shouldn't be talking about this."

It was too late. Matt's shame poured out.

"I didn't sense them. Not enough. Not for weeks. I knew I was seen… Sometimes I was followed, but I lost them – or I thought I did - and it was never the same person. People often catch a glance… it's unavoidable, no matter how fast or how high up I go. Mostly they are curious, excited; sometimes angry ... I thought that's all it was. I was careful… but I wasn't careful enough. I didn't see the pattern. Even though I knew he escaped from Riker's, I didn't see the pattern."

His hand was gently squeezed.

"Matt, are you saying they were tracking you? And they were Fisk's men?"

He nodded. Another hand was placed gently on his chest.

"The cops and the feds are looking for him of course, but this will, at least, convince them that he isn't hiding out in the Caribbean or something. …"

Matt moved his head in negation.

"It won't. Word of a blind man. Isn't that why no one is posting cops outside my door, nor hurrying to take my statement?"

"Mahoney definitely was. But, this is the first day you've actually been able to hold a conversation for more than five minutes, and I sure as hell am not going to sic him on you today! But, Matt, the important thing is, we are making sure that no one comes in here that we do not recognise, that we have not vetted. And we have… eyes outside as well. I am not dismissing the danger here – I have a concealed-carry licence now, for God's sake – but we are not entirely unprepared. You are safe, Matt. So are we. We are gonna keep it that way."

The beating blood in Foggy's hand told Matt there was more hope than truth in the last statement, and, paradoxically, that comforted him. His friend wasn't completely delusional, which meant that one day he will work out that Matt was living on borrowed time, and there was nothing he could do about that, other than to get away before the clock ran down and the explosion took them all. But Matt was still insensibly and ludicrously glad that today was not that day, and Foggy's hand still rested on his chest, even as the pain in his back was claiming more and more of his attention.

Foggy must've seen something on the cardiac monitor that snaked its leads underneath the bandages around Matt's torso.

"I am gonna get the nurse, Matt. You're probably close to being due for a boost of the pain-meds."

"Wait. Foggy, the pain feels… different… in my back… And, my thighs are bandaged and… itchy… and …" He lifted the hand that was still grasping Foggy's, but it only came up several inches off the bed, before being snagged by a soft restraint hugging his forearm.

"Oh shit, I forgot about those. Hang on, I'll let you loose. It's a precaution. You've been coming up thrashing if the painkillers wore off earlier than expected. They've been having real trouble finding the right dose for you, and they were worried that you'd do damage to the skin graft and the voodoo magic that they did to help fix the muscles in your back. The skin graft is the reason your legs are bandaged… it's…. umm… where they took the skin from, to… ummm… The doc said that those bandages should come off soon now."

Matt pressed past Foggy's discomfort, "Voodoo magic?"

"You don't remember, do you? That's cool, but you sure you don't wanna wait for the doc to spell it all out?"

"Just tell me."

Foggy was silent for a second.

"The doc thinks he can fix your back, Matt. It involves donated … something, and your stem cells and I think they even managed to graft in new blood vessels under the skin. It's all pretty complicated stuff. But – here's the thing, Matt. …"

He paused and turned his head to look at the monitor again.

"It's gonna take some time for your muscles to recover and… it won't be a pleasant process."

Foggy paused again, and Matt knew it was to try to construct some sort of cushion for a hard news: not lying, but not quite telling the truth either. He couldn't afford to wade through platitudes when he didn't know how long a period of awareness he had. The pain was building with every minute, raising memories behind it like sludge from a fetid well. He had enough recollection of his brief interludes of lucidity to know that it would take all his concentration to keep both from overwhelming him until another dose of opioids took it out of his hands.

So: "Spit it out."

"Ok… They will be backing off the dose of Fentanyl you are on, otherwise you are gonna have even more issues with pain management and possible addiction down the line, and… well… a lot of other meds are either likely to mess with your head, or mess with your recovery."

Foggy grabbed Matt's hand again.

"I am sorry, but we had to make the call for them to go ahead, because you… well, you couldn't… not in time. But Matt, without this, you were unlikely to ever be able to stand or walk unsupported. At least now, there's a good chance you'll get at least some of your strength back. A real good chance!"

Matt closed his eyes. The promise of continuous agony as the price for an uncertain recovery wiped out the last of the current dose of his chemical defence. Foggy's calming hand was back on his chest, betrayed by Foggy's own racing heart.

"I am gonna call the nurse, OK Matt?"

He could only nod.


	5. Chapter 5

_"__For this reason God sends them a powerful delusion so that they will believe the lie and so that all will be condemned who have not believed the truth but have delighted in wickedness." _\- Thessalonians 2:11-12

**01037 **

"I am disappointed in you, Matty."

His dad's words fell into his chest and wrapped themselves around his heart, squeezing, amidst the buzz of rhythmic electronic static.

"I told you: use your head, not your fists."

_I did, dad, I do, but it wasn't enough…_

"Enough for whom? The city? God? Or the Devil in you? Look what you did, Matty, with your cursed gifts! I was just the first sacrifice to the pathetic ambition of an angry blind boy, but I won't be the last."

His father's blood, shards of bone and globs of brain matter followed the words, and he lay paralysed. Terror swirled around in his head screaming at him _'get up, get up, you are a Murdock, you have to get up'._

He couldn't.

He twisted his head to the side. The slight change in temperature told him he faced a window, and he could hear her heartbeat and footsteps and clean citrus smell somewhere out there, but the click of the dart being loaded into a rifle was also out there, and he couldn't move.

Fisk bent over him, stinking out his pleasure, crooning "Now _all_ your loved ones that you let in, will suffer punishment beneath the wrath of God. Do not forget."

He was too terrified to move.

The buzzing drumbeat stopped, but the rats scampered underneath him, digging their claws into his back, unzipping the delicate networks of new cells into useless rotting mess, nosing around the blood vessels, and chomping.

He was in too much agony to move.

And then the familiar hands wrapped around his arms, pressing his skin, gently stroking up and down. She was here, after all, scattering his nightmare and coaxing him into wakefulness.

She could do nothing about the pain, though, which continued to gnaw at his nerves, exhausting him beyond the help of drugs or his arsenal of meditative techniques.

She could do nothing to shield him from the memories of the meaty hand landing on his trembling shoulder – its warmth and moisture proclaiming the gruesome workout its owner was undertaking, the voice above it promising him the final indignity of hearing him beg.

She could do nothing about the dreaded, despised, paralysing blast of adrenaline that rushed through his system each time his senses strayed outside the controlled environment of his hospital room and skittered over the chaos of the city. Out there was the Damocles sword of his immutable helplessness and impending failure, even if he somehow avoided the fate of remaining a cripple.

She was here, and she could do nothing, other than remind him with her presence that she, too, was likely to die on his watch, leaving an unbearable hole in his heart and blood on his conscience. He had thrust her and Foggy away, but his friends were too stubborn or stupid to give him up in return, and clung to him like a life-vest, when all he needed was to drown. And there was less than nothing he could do about it.

So he lay on the hospital bed, inhaling the scent of citrus and stale coffee and washed cotton, guiltily filling up with it, trying to hide in it for just a few more moments, before he was forced to wage the daily battle against the pain and the sounds and the memories and the fears.

Her hands shifted and he heard the rip and shift of the Velcro of the protective straps around his arms: she knew his breathing patterns now better than he knew hers, so she knew he was awake. She didn't speak though, giving him mental space, just as she helped him regain a modicum of physical freedom. Instead, she sat back, and he regretted losing the touch of her fingers, but didn't allow himself the luxury of reaching for her with anything but his voice.

"Hey" – his voice was sleep-rough.

"Hey yourself" – hers betrayed a lack of sleep.

"You've been here all night." Not a question. Not even unexpected, but the argument was becoming as routine as brushing teeth.

"I was writing" – she wound up the cord of the headphones from her mobile.

"An opinion piece?"

"More or less" – she did well to try to hide her discomfort with it, but not well enough. He understood that someone with her natural aptitude for investigative journalism would not be satisfied as a glorified blogger guest-starring in regular columns and embellishing second-hand information, but research took time and passion and energy – and all these she was spending (wasting) on him. It was one more measure of guilt that he carried, and their perennial argument did not assuage it.

"You know you don't need to …"

A smile in her voice, "I know. Foggy has that deposition today, so you are going to have to put up with my company a while longer, Matt."

Her smile was genuine, corroborated by her heartbeat, and, again, the shameful pleasure at the thought swept through him, lifting his spirits despite the whispers from his conscience.

"Read it to me?"

"The article?... Breakfast first?"

He shook his head - "Coffee. I'd offer to get it, but they tell me I just can't shoulder even that much responsibility."

That netted him a surprised pause and then the awaited groan with the concealed smile.

"I'd punch you if you weren't in a hospital bed already."

"Harsh! Even I wouldn't go around slugging people just for bad puns."

"Blame it on the lack of coffee. Back soon."

The sound of her laughter raised the sun for him that morning.

* * *

Early mornings were often the easiest for him, even despite the pall frequently cast by the nightmares. The warmth of the newborn day carried him through the restlessness of being confined to a bed in a hated environment; helped him cope with the constant bombardment by the scents of sweat and chemicals and urine, the lying positivity of harried nurses, the endless sounds of distress and despair that fed and fattened his own. He often found himself wishing for a return of the sedation-induced sensory fog, but music, audio-books, conversation – all helped to tune this assault out, turn it into a known and manageable quantity. At least for a while.

It was the twice-daily physiotherapy sessions that constituted the major hurdles for his spirit. The mid-morning session pitted him squarely against the limitations of his once-powerful body, as he struggled through the exercises designed with the simplest of end-goals: sitting up, standing, raising his arms, avoiding a permanent curvature of the spine. By the end of each session, sweat poured down his face and his teeth hurt from gritting against the agony and the rage of helplessness. He dismissed the encouragement heaped on him by the therapist as undeserved in the light of his obstinate expectations. Yet no matter how he pushed, it seemed that his body could give him nothing back in return, and the hopelessness threatened to overwhelm all reason.

In the afternoons, he welcomed the pain, using it as a focus for meditation and a shield against the depression, but as the day waned, and his energy drained out in tandem with the progressively increasing burning ache, the demons took a firmer hold. He found it impossible to dismiss the din around him, to remain calm as the groans of other patients mirrored his own suffering. They burst through his concentration, leaving him stiff and frozen with tension, his breathing skirting the threshold of hyperventilation, his mind scattering to the four points of the compass, unable to focus on anything that might anchor him - lost and blind and helpless.

When the acupuncturist inserted his therapeutic needles into his back and shoulders and passed an electric current through them, causing the shredded and weak muscles to twitch, the memories of a whip's claws assailed him, and he gripped his friends' hands in panic. Physically, mentally and emotionally wrung out, his head was filled with the echoes of his gasps against the strangling metal, and he longed for the all-encompassing and eternal numbness it promised.

* * *

_"… It appears that the waning relevance of the Catholic Church among the denizens of Hell's Kitchen is not driven by a lack of need for organised religion, nor is it a rejection of community ties founded on common beliefs. Rather, it's a shift from the veneration of mystic powers, to the reliance on the faculty of reason and personal agency. This shift did not originate in a vacuum, but out of a community's exhaustion with crime, corruption and the impotence of the mainstream religious, political and law enforcement institutions. Out of this community's despair arose individuals who were willing to put their bodies on the line in order to protect Hell's Kitchen, when no one else could, or would. They brought a sense of safety to a place that has had none for years. Is it any wonder that the young, and the not-so-young, inhabitants of this city declared these clandestine mortals as their apostles, and elevated them to the status of worship? …"_

"Worship? It's… poetic… but a touch hyperbolic, don't you think?"

"No, Matt, I meant that literally. There's an offshoot of the … ummm… Church of Satan…. They call themselves the Church of The Devil of Hell's Kitchen. They don't …"

"Please tell me you are kidding!"

The shock on his face would've been almost comical, if the guilt behind it wasn't so painful to see. Not that it surprised her that he took other people's eccentricities so close to heart, when it involved his alter ego.

"Matt, they are really… just Atheists. They don't believe in any divine power, and that includes Satan. You – or, at least, Daredevil – are just a symbol for them. A symbol of doing the right and the just thing… not waiting for someone to come and fix it: God or cops or whatever. Isn't that, pretty much, the American way, if you think about it?"

He shook his head.

"'_For this reason God sends them a powerful delusion so that they will believe the lie' _– Thessalonians, I think. The Devil is not a symbol to be embraced and then expect to walk in sunshine. He is the Deceiver, and he is damn good at getting logic and reason and all the positive intentions to work for him. Until God turns away, and you don't even notice. You think you are doing God's work, when, in fact… not so much."

Karen carefully put her laptop down on the floor and leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees, and chin – on her hands. For someone whose ethos was so strongly based on the Catholic faith, Matt seldom spoke of it, aside from a few matter-of-fact allusions. Of course she had wondered how his identity as the Devil of Hell's Kitchen fitted into that, but by the time he confessed to her, it was too late for philosophical discussions. Her heart was too gouged to listen, and he was drawing the curtain between himself and his friends.

There was so little she knew about him.

"See, I thought I had it figured out," Matt's lips quirked in a glumly wry grin, "I felt a sense of purpose behind everything. God gave me this gift, when He took my sight, and I thought that I was being tested… my father's death, the orphanage, Stick... Even when the rage was tearing me up from the inside. I believed that He was preparing me. Sending me these… challenges… to teach me to control the Devil. To not let it out, unless to make him work for God's purpose. It was – just; it was - righteous. And I _wanted_ it. I wanted to hurt all those that preyed on the weaker, the misguided, the misled... even if they were themselves misled. I trusted... that was the bargain. I let them live; I handed them in to the cops, so that they too had their chance at redemption. Do you get how arrogant I was? How unforgivably stupid?"

"No, I don't… It sounds – humane."

"Ha! Believing I could make a God's soldier out of the Devil? It was hubris. You know that road to hell, and what it's paved with? It's carved into my flesh now, in case I ever need a reminder."

She had to argue, even though she knew that her best role was to just listen and allow at least some of the poison rotting his soul to come out from under his skin.

"Matt – you say you were wrong, but I am certain that not one of the dozens - no, hundreds of people that you helped – that you saved – would agree with you. I am one of those people, so I kinda get a vote in this. I would've been dead if it wasn't for you. More than once."

He drew a breath to respond, but she jumped in again.

"And don't tell me that I was in danger because of you, or your … your devil's influence. I made my own choices, followed my own leads into dark holes."

He stayed quiet for a moment and she hoped that her assurances eased his despair, but the palpable fury that clipped his next words blasted that wish to smithereens.

"What I did – no, it wasn't all wrong. It's the why that I question. It is not the deeds, but what is in a man's heart that he is judged by. _Enjoyment_ was in mine each time my fist connected with the face of some entitled prick, who felt justified in pushing his way into a woman's apartment and her bed, just because he paid for dinner. Or when I was breaking the bones of an armed thug, who figured that robbing corner stores was easier than working for a living. I relished that crunch, and… their helplessness, their blood. It fed the thing inside me... I understand that now... And I know I am damned… I still don't want to give it up, see... even when everything I now sense …" Matt cut himself off, swallowed.

His breathing was fast, his fists – clenched. His eyes were closed and he averted his face from her.

"I tried to stop, you know. After… after I told you _what_ I was. The Devil brought so much ruin to my life – drove away or destroyed everything and everyone near me… who I cared about. I thought I could let it go - let the mask go. Lasted about two weeks," his laugh was acerbic.

So much was falling into place for her, even as she sensed that it was breaking all around him. But he just needed to step slightly sideways …

Karen weighed her words, "Was it the … enjoyment that you missed, or not doing what you knew you could, when you heard a cry in some alley?"

Matt did not respond.

She went for broke, "Would you have _enjoyed_ it as much if you were beating on that store's owner, instead of breaking the bones of the thug about to rob him?"

_That_ got a reaction, and he turned his head towards her again, with shock and abhorrence written on his face.

"Maybe some part of you does love the fight, and the power it gives you, but what I also know is how important _justice _is to you - how hard you work to protect those who need protecting. That has to count for a hell of a lot in any deity's book."

He didn't stop her, and she couldn't have stopped herself now, "… And I don't think that anyone can get as good at doing something – anything – as you are, without enjoying it. You know, there are lots of fancy words that get thrown around. A 'passion' or a 'calling' - but, in the end, I think it comes down to doing something that you love so much, that you put everything you are capable of – everything that you _are_ – into it. From where I sit, you roped the rage - or the Devil - into a worthy cause. You dedicated you work as a lawyer to the same cause. You chose the cause. You. Not the Devil. You are a _good_ man, Matt Murdock, despite your struggles. Or maybe even because of them."

Matt's eyes glistened, and his throat worked against the probable denials stuck there.

"Then why? Does _He_ not care and it's all a lie? Purpose, place, sin, redemption... and if that's the case, what's the point? I'd rather believe that I am forsaken by Him, than that this was all some cosmic joke and everything I've done - everything that I am - is fragile like a house of cards."

Karen's heart broke for him, and she wanted to reassure him, to whisper every hopeful platitude into his ear, until he was forced to believe her, but the instinctual respect she held for him - his pain, his experience – caught up and sealed her mouth shut. But not her arms. She wrapped them around him best she could without touching any injured part of him, and held him until his stiff response gave way to grieving sobs, and tears that ran down and bathed her neck.


	6. Chapter 6

_"For God did not spare angels when they sinned, but sent them to hell, putting them in chains of darkness to be held for judgement."_ – Peter 2:4

**01048**

He dozed that afternoon – fitfully, unwillingly - a prize in a tug-of-war between the leaden exhaustion and constant pain. The tentacles of the nightmares wove around his thoughts as a nonsensical kaleidoscope of anger, disappointment and failure. And bitter blood - always that. Claire's, Foggy's, Elektra's, Karen's – countless others, whom he had betrayed and lost on his quest to deliver God's justice with the gore-smeared gloves of the Devil. In their midst, Matt heard His deep orator's voice, and He was laughing.

That voice finally jerked him out of the hypnotic swamp, but the exhaustion and guilt, rage and pain simply followed. Karen's words, which had seemed to him as an undeserved and uncalled for blessing (as all true blessings are), were now twisted into a weight of doubt and desperation. A "good man"… how?

A line from a poem slithered its way into his mind: "Angels lie to keep control". She lied to keep him living, when every night his last thought was a wish – he did not dare to call it a prayer – to not awaken the next morning. She stayed by his side, condemning him to this continuous conscious torture as surely as Fisk did, when he forced the needle-full of chemical inside of him. Her motives – however pure they may have appeared to her - were yet another aspect of his deserving damnation.

The squeal of tearing rubber, and muffled explosions of shattering plastic and compacting metal, burst through the ordinary jostle of the traffic sounds and into his consciousness. Close. Maybe two blocks. The waves were distorted by the window, concealing the details, but Matt still made out the unmistakable wet _thwup_ of several thousand pounds of moving carnage hitting flesh.

His traitorous body's reaction was so established now, he could almost feel the chemical factories within his glands dumping the drug into his bloodstream, preparing him to act, calling him to help, to do _something_, and, simultaneously, freezing him. Familiar ropes squeezed his chest. His hands were cold from the knots around his wrists. Humiliation dowsed him in sweat. He breathed. He counted. He wrenched his mind away from the tragedy without, and the memories within, and concentrated... concentrated… but he was so exhausted.

He wanted none of this. He wanted out. He was done.

The strobed sirens of an ambulance blared and entwined with the wailing of cop cars - pulsing against the delicate skin inside his middle ear, mounting the shockwaves into breakers frothing with panic. Another nerve-rendering squeal added itself to the din – this one closer, connected to the one muscle in his body that refused to stop working as so many of the others had. He twisted his fingers around the wires at his chest and tore, but he didn't even have the strength to destroy these weak filaments in one attempt. Pathetic. Worthless. He pulled again, and again until their sticky hold collapsed, but the grating sound remained - one-toned and strident.

Karen was yelling his name, but it was her heartbeat that deafened him. The heartbeat that would not surrender him to the inevitable, that insisted he stayed and fought a war he no longer believed in. This angel whose presence tormented him; taunted him with the contrast between her blinding selflessness, her cruel mercifulness - and the blood-tainted, ripped, rage-infested thing that he called his own soul. Hers was the only light he was capable of seeing, and it illuminated him, and he despised the source for what he saw.

He screamed at her. Ordered her to leave him - to get away, while she still could. Called her every foul thing from the depth of the sewer of what remained of his mind. Twisted when, instead of fleeing, her worshipped hands pressed themselves against his arms. She still didn't fucking let him go!

He wrenched himself more, felt the fragile muscles tear at his shoulder, welcomed the agony with a savage glee even as it forced another scream from him, because he managed to shift her – knocked her off balance, tumbled the mighty angel to her knees. Her hand slipped off him, but he felt her grab the railing of the hospital bed beside his head, and, as she lost the battle to keep herself upright, her arm draped across his neck - cut off his raging cries, his helpless tears, as she arrested the flow of blood and air. He grabbed her wrist and her elbow, pressing down, using her flesh and bone to chase the peace in the red void.

He praised her name as he fell.

* * *

The water swirled and sloshed in the basin, washing down the bile that still burned her throat. Karen put her hands under the cold stream, intent on splashing it over the feverish skin of her face, when the quiet chirp from her phone interrupted. She almost let it go to voicemail, but a sense of duty forced her to wipe one palm across her jeans and reach for the mobile. The name on the screen surprised her.

"It's Karen."

"You alright?"

Her response was automatic: "Yeah… yeah, I am fine."

"Bullshit. What happened there?"

Karen blinked, her thoughts - sluggish.

"How did you…? We agreed - no cameras in his room!"

"Building across the road. Micro's gadgets make sure we know it's clear where it needs to be. Roof has a good vantage point." – He paused for a moment – "You look like shit; ready to pass out on your damn feet. Figured I could give you a break tonight."

It was a testament to how weird her life was that realising a sniper rifle was pointed in her direction for God knew how long - made her feel protected and comforted, instead of completely freaked out. She sighed.

"I think I need to be here tonight… when Matt wakes up."

"No you don't. You ain't gonna do him any good if you run yourself into the ground, or into the next-door ward. You need to rest. Noone's gonna get to him. I'll make sure."

"It's… it's not that."

"I know. Downstairs in five."

He hung up.

Karen walked out of the hospital into the gilded crimson light of the setting sun. Frank was right – she was swaying as she moved: a sense of dizziness and unreality was a constant impediment that she now only noticed when she paid attention. She spotted him – a hunched figure in a grey hooded sweatshirt - sitting on a bench fifty yards away, positioned among what was obviously a token effort at greenery in a kingdom of steel and glass.

He passed her a paper cup as she sat next to him.

"What's this?" she inhaled a spicy aroma.

"Chai - or some shit like that. No caffeine. You gotta sleep."

Karen huffed out a laugh, and took a sip of the ridiculously-sweet milky brew. It warmed her stomach, but did nothing for the shocked numbness in her head.

"It's not the first time he…" she stopped, started again, "I think I set it off. He blames himself for what happened to him… that it is God's punishment. That he deserves it. I tried to convince him he was wrong ..." - She took another sip, and cradled the cup in her lap, looking at it, while Frank watched her from beneath the hood.

"You told him shit happens, and not he, or God, was in control?"

Karen kept staring at the lid of the cup.

"He…" – now the tears threatened, and she swore at them till they shrank back, chastised. "He wishes we didn't save him, at least some of the time. I can see it in his face… and not just when he screams it at me, but… even when I think he is doing OK…"

The tear still splashed against the white plastic and Karen idly thought it was a pity that the lid was in the way: it might've taken some of the sickly sweetness out.

"He won't talk to anyone… anyone else. Won't even talk to his priest. Argues that it's too dangerous. Even with us… he barely opens up."

Another splash sparkled pink in the dying light– this time on the back of her hand.

"I know you told me this … when we found him. But – I can't, Frank. I can't."

"Can't fight this war for him either, Karen. He gotta decide if he wants to keep swimming through this muck, or quit." – He took a swig from his own cup of coffee – "This place – it's too fucking antiseptic in there."

They sat side by side in the cold air of the setting sun. Her shoulder first brushed and then leaned against his; his dark hidden eyes traced the silently-falling drops on her face.

* * *

It was rare for Matt to awaken in the middle of the night while the drugs still coursed through his system - especially with the addition of the sedative - but tonight was a rare night, and the Devil obviously has not yet had his fill of fun. The nightmares of ropes, blood and helplessness came early and in breathtaking sensory detail. He thought he had screamed but, apparently, only gasped, for the heartbeat of the man sitting in the armchair did not project any sort of alarm. Then again, maybe it wouldn't. Befuddled, still half in the grip of terror, Matt's intuitive reaction was to conceal.

"Who's there?"

"Frank. Go back to sleep, Red."

_Now_ he was fully awake.

"What did you call me?"

The response sounded tired.

"Gimme a break. Ain't nothing wrong with your hearing."

His brain refused to keep up, could not calculate what mistake he has made, what danger this implied.

"Did Karen tell you?"

"Jesus, Red! She didn't tell me squat. Shit, I thought that woman would blow my head off when I said she could drop the pretence. Told her same as I told you – ain't my business what you are."

"How then?"

"Got your mask knocked off that night on the roof, hadn't you? Could see you clear as if you were next to me. It sure as hell explained why I got a couple fancy Columbia-educated lawyers for my trial."

Shame rolled over Matt again. It was becoming such a regular sensation that he idly wondered how it still continued to shock him. Another broken promise. He – who had dedicated his life to the restoration of justice – behaved like a bottom-feeding shyster. In the end, he wasn't there for any of them. Not even for Elektra. Yet it was they who ended up saving him, again and again, and each time there was less of him to save, and, frankly, not even worth it.

And maybe they were beginning to finally realise it. At least, Karen was. Matt couldn't recall everything, but he knew where the feeling of dull knives cutting at the newly-knitted fibres of his shoulder came from, and he wasn't surprised that she wasn't here. He _was_ surprised though at the sharp disappointment and fear that pierced him. This fear was separate from the interminable adversary he fought with daily - the one that made him long for a cessation to all thoughts, all emotions, all that was left of his being. This fear was a response to him wanting – no, needing_ –_ and a rational part of his mind was astute enough to tell him that a man who _needs_ is one that still clings to life. Yet, even this realisation probably came too late, and that was for the best.

"She'll be back." – Frank's voice slotted in between his self-recriminations so seamlessly, he wondered whether he spoke out loud. – "Told her to either take Valium or get drunk. Whatever it takes, but she gotta sleep for the next 24 hours."

Another fault of his.

"I told her, she doesn't need to be here… She should not be here. She needs to return to her life."

"She is fucking stubborn, Red. And just as bad as you at knowing when to lay low. But you are an idiot if you recon she don't know her choices."

His mind was being shut down by the sedatives and exhaustion, and it was too difficult to argue, but the fear subsided and he didn't question that. There was something else that he wanted to hear before he passed out – something they only alluded to previously …

"You found me."

Frank paused, figuring out the change of direction.

"I had help."

"And you are the one who is – how did Foggy put it - eyes outside of this place?"

"I have help."

He knew he should say it. The sane and rational part of him wanted to say it, but the Devil still had a firm hold and hissed of the veil that was ripped out of his hands. It had promised, at the very least, certainty; and it was impossible to believe that this daily torment was not hell, and that anything beyond could be worse.

So – he didn't say it.

And Castle nodded.

"If you can't see the way to get through the next day for yourself, Red, do it for her. Sleep now."

Unlike Karen, he seemed to have little in the way of choice. About anything. But even as the Devil resisted, the thumping beat of the marine's heart anchored Matt as he, once again, gave in to exhaustion and slept.


	7. Chapter 7

_"Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends." – _John 15:13

**01905**

"What do you think about getting out of here, buddy?"

Matt blinked uncertainly.

"Out of the room?"

In the last three weeks he did manage to get out of the room on his own two feet. True, he didn't do it by himself the first time - his arm was slung around Foggy's shoulders the whole way, as they slowly made it to the patients' lounge at the end of the hallway. At least it wasn't in the damn wheelchair, and - though he would never admit to it – he did feel a small twinge of satisfaction at being able to do even this much. Since then – treadmill-walking sessions were added to his physiotherapy, and his mobility increased, even though he felt his chest tearing apart just from the effort of breathing, and he could not stay upright without support for more than ten minutes.

"Nope. I mean out of the hospital. What do you think about going home? Or – staying with one of us? Marci and I have a guest room, though I am pretty sure Karen would fight me for the honour." Foggy was grinning, but there was pounding in Matt's head.

"What does Dr Wali say about your idea to break me out?" Matt thought he succeeded in matching his jovial tone.

"Honestly, he wasn't too happy about it, but - the way I see it - most doctors are control freaks and figure their patients will break apart the moment they are let out of sight. He did admit that, as long as you still get the physio done as an outpatient, there's no reason why you can't be sprung from here. And hey, who knows - the outpatient nurses may be a lot hotter than the hospital ones! They gotta keep the patient motivated, after all, without the benefit of having a captive audience."

Matt swallowed. Smiled.

"A convincing argument, counsellor. When would this daring plan be put into effect?"

Unexpectedly, Foggy sounded unsure.

"Ah, well… there's one teensy little thing that … ah… Karen and I would really like to get your buy into."

"Freedom always has a price. What is it?"

"We want to… ummm… make sure your apartment is secure. I don't mean just locks and stuff – though God knows how you never got your place broken into, with what you have on your doors at the moment. Not to mention that you don't even lock the exit to the roof!"

"You just stumbled on one of my phobias: being stuck on the roof, bleeding out, and not able to take care of it because I lost the keys in a brawl. It would be a rather pathetic end for Daredevil. I don't think even Karen could spin that one into anything epic."

"Fuck, Matt! Don't even joke about that!"

Matt achieved something he didn't think was possible - to shock Foggy with words. He sighed. Reminded himself they meant well; that they did what they could to help him, which was useless, but still much more than he deserved.

"Sorry, buddy. What did you have in mind for … security?"

"Locks, cameras, motion detectors – the whole nine yards… Matt, I told you, we are not gonna let anyone even have a shot at catching you out again."

He couldn't help laughing, "Foggy, an alarm system monitored by rent-a-cop is not gonna stop someone like Fisk. They'd simply be bought off. Or worse."

"Well, we are not talking about rent-a-cop. It's Micro's idea. His system. His monitoring program. Look, I am even worse at explaining tech stuff than I am at medical jargon, but this guy – he's tapped into every camera he could within two miles of your place, our places, your office – everywhere. Installed a few of his own too, including on your roof. And he is running some sort of pattern-matching or facial-recognition models to try to spot if anyone is … hanging around you. Or us. Especially anyone known to be … associated with Fisk." – Foggy paused, anxiety wafting from him, and Matt wondered whether it was his impending response that was scaring Foggy, or the idea of Fisk's clandestine but palpable presence. He thought it was the latter, and winced at the weight and fear that he brought into their lives.

"The cameras and stuff inside – no one will actually _have _to look at the feed … and, anyway, you could turn them off whenever you want. We know privacy is important… but if something goes wrong, you can be warned, and you can…"

"OK."

"… raise the alarm yourself, and…. what?"

"I said – OK."

Shock exuded from Foggy again – twice in five minutes! – it must've been a record, if he didn't count that night Foggy found him bleeding on the floor of his apartment.

"Really? Shit… I thought I'd have to literally twist your arm."

"Glad you didn't have to. Not sure my arms could cope with that right now."

Foggy must've also realised what he had just said, and the temperature in his face rose, but Matt pushed him on.

"I am not going to say I like it. But – it makes sense. Especially, if it also protects you and Karen. And Marci. I am just sorry you guys … got caught up in it."

"Matt, if you hadn't noticed, we aren't exactly rushing to get out. And we were in it already, since we were all responsible for putting Fisk away. Anyway, I'll pass the message on...and, if you stay with one of us for now, you don't have to think about all this for a while."

"Thank you, Foggy… and, pass on my thanks, too."

"Will do. Though I am going to leave it to you to tell Castle that you called him rent-a-cop." - Foggy's outgoing chuckle was light-hearted enough to put Matt at ease: Foggy did not notice his clenched fist by his side, or the uneven breathing, or the light sheen of sweat on his forehead.

When the door closed behind him, Matt lay back and tried to sort out his thoughts from panicked reactions. It wasn't the threat of Fisk getting hold of him again that filled him with dread. He figured that if that happened, as intense as the agony was bound to be, he was too broken and weak to survive it for long, and there was such warmth of comfort in this thought, that he bitterly regretted all the security measures his friends were piling into place. Those, though, were not for him, and he prayed it would all be enough to keep his friends safe.

It was the thought of his beloved city that raised his skin in goosebumps. Out there in Hell's Kitchen, surrounded – buffeted - by its pain and mischief… Out there he would not be able to control his mind's insane, betraying effects on his body.

There was no question of staying with either Karen or Foggy: he could not put this burden on them any longer, and, if he was to have any chance of managing at all, he could not be under the watchful eyes of others. Anger bubbled up in noxious fumes. Why did they have to do this? Why uproot him when he had managed, somehow, to gain some measure of control in an inescapable environment? A quiet reflective voice beneath the anger asked 'why did you not say 'no'; why not tell them?' Matt dismissed the questions. The answer was obvious of course, was it not? As long as he remained here, his friends refused to let up in their exhausting protectiveness. Perhaps once he was back at home, under the illusion of safety that the electronic surveillance promised, and seen to be trying to stitch the scraps of his life back together – their lives could also regain normality.

He needed to do it for them. He owed it to them, even if he wished that he owed them nothing.

He heard the Devil laughing.

* * *

"How did he take it?"

"Yeah, I wish I knew. He didn't object - that's for certain. He took it all with real good humour. Hell, he didn't even balk at the idea of the cameras. I was sure we were going to have a good old college debate over that one, except I wasn't going to lose this time. But – he agreed," Foggy paused, leaned against the back of the chair in the hospital's cafeteria -"… There was no… well… I don't know what I was expecting… not enthusiasm, exactly, but maybe a little anticipation; maybe apprehension, concern, _something_? But he was just – accepting, and joking, like he was totally fine with it… Maybe he is. Maybe I am worrying for nothing."

Karen's teeth scraped and bit at her lip, so he couldn't help asking, "Are you sure about this?"

She shook her head.

"No, Foggy, I am not certain about anything… and I am worried, too. I think he is caught in … in a kind of limbo. We know he is getting better – physically - but I don't think he knows it. His life – his practice, his home – it's all still there; it hasn't disappeared while he is stuck here … but all he has right now is continuous pain … and nightmares. I am not sure he can see past that. He's been surviving for so long, I don't think _living_ makes sense to him anymore."

"I wonder if living made sense to him since we left college, or since he put on that damn mask!" Foggy knew that the bitterness was a by-product of concern and helpless frustration, but his natural optimism seemed to have deserted him.

"I think it has. I … didn't know you guys back then, but… I think I've seen _that_ Matt – the one you tell stories about. Or, at least, glimpses of him. Do you remember that spring and summer, after we took Fisk down? The word got around about the practice, we started helping more people… and, I didn't know his secret then, but – he was out a lot, wasn't he? Barely a week went by without us reading something about him in the papers. But the three of us also spent many nights running up the bar tab at Josie's, and… he seemed content. Maybe even happy." She put her hand on Foggy's, "I have to believe that, somehow, he can find his way back to that. That he wants to… I just don't think he can do it from here."

Foggy sighed and shook off the doubts, "You are right. We need to get him out of here. I told him he can stay with one of us. I doubt he'd agree to that – I'll fall off a chair if he does! – but I am not gonna let him mope around in his apartment either. If nothing else, he'd better get his brain in gear soon: there are only so many of his clients I can handle myself, or blackmail others into taking on pro bono."

Karen smiled, nodded, squeezed his hand, "Yes. Sounds like a plan. No letting him hide in his misery behind closed doors. Not on our watch."


	8. Chapter 8

_"Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows; yet we considered him stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted." _– Isaiah 53:4

**02583**

They did not leave him alone to try and just _deal_. If he even could. Then again, it was foolish of him to think that they would. Stubbornness was a trait they all shared, with plenty left for the overflow from kindness to a suffocating persistence. They didn't attempt to hide their intentions though, with Foggy clearly stating that they were not going to allow him to sink into a state of despondency, in a tone that dared him - even double-dared him - to argue. He didn't. But he did forbid them to play babysitters during the nights. He felt Foggy's hurt and Karen's unsurprised resignation at that, and chose not to smooth over his curtness. Yet, when they left, he missed their warmth, and shied away from the lonely echoing of his empty apartment.

Every minute out of their presence threw him face-first at the wall of his limitations - made so much more salient here, in his familiar space. Without his friends, he was as free as he wished to face the arresting sounds from the churning of Hell's Kitchen outside his windows – and they were beating him. As the civilized veneer of the city faded with the sinking sun, the predators came out to play, and he picked up the whispers of their hide-and-seek games. He listened, and his helplessness choked him. The adrenaline-fueled need to act was dammed-in by the awareness of his physical disability: the two opposing forces freezing him, grinding his mind to dust, threatening to blank out his consciousness - until he forced his hands over his ears and screamed to overpower the barrage.

But he could never scream loud enough to stop himself hearing Fisk's taunts behind him, mocking him with his sins, offering him a dreadful restitution.

When his friends were with him though, his obstinate need to control and conceal these shameful responses from their knowledge, made him feel as if he was wearing a straitjacket woven from live wires. He could not even delude himself with the thought that he was simply saving them excess worry. Sheer inertia, guilt and damned pride drove him: he had beaten the monsters in his mind once before – with Stick's brutal tutelage, perhaps, but he was just a kid then. To even consider that this was somehow different - took too much energy. To accept succour from his friends was to deny the penance that was his to pay. But to continue fighting on the three fronts of physical agony, sapping nightmares and the adrenaline-fuelled paralysis was a one-way trip into howling madness. If he couldn't find a way to stop it, he wanted to be dead before he got there.

Matt sat on the couch, barely able to keep himself from doubling with pain after the physio session – the overworked muscles screeching at him, the fragile skin raw from the ever-present shoulder and back braces. He concentrated on the ebb and flow of the pain, noting every inch that it affected, clearing its hold from his emotions, reclaiming his resolve from its grasp, reminding himself that the time was short: this late in the afternoon, either Foggy or Karen would be stopping by soon, bearing vapid news and takeout food.

Those stairs to the rooftop were gonna be a bitch, but it was the exposure that he needed to face. The only time he'd been outside since the EMTs brought him to the hospital was on the way here, and then he had warded himself from the sensory assault with the help of headphones and pure teeth-grinding willpower. While being inside these four walls did not fully protect him, it still provided a cushioning that he lost out there. Yet, out there - where all of his working senses were tuned in and drinking of the data flowing in the open air - that was his domain. At least it used to be, in some previous lifetime, the memory of which he now needed to carry him past his breaking point.

Clenching his fists, he straightened his spasming back, forced himself to walk when his body wanted to stoop and shuffle. He convinced himself that it was his still-weak thoracic muscles, combined with the effort of climbing the stairs, which caused his heart to race - not the apprehension of what lay beyond the door. He brought all of his senses to focus even before he unlocked and pushed it open - getting the lay of the city spread below and rising all around him - but when he finally stepped onto the roof, the intricate rush of the stimuli onto his tuned-in nerves nearly drove him back. He couldn't remember feeling this overwhelmed since the days he writhed on the bed of the orphanage, but, back then, the input was a jumbled avalanche that nearly buried him under its volume. He was now facing the opposite problem: every sensation carried acute meaning and, behind it, was the intimation of a threat that would start the debilitating cycle.

He sifted through the messages, consciously dismissing them one by one, gritting his teeth to focus despite the steadily-rising pull of disassociation; driving his legs towards the roof's parapet, feeling his heartrate rising, the tendons stiffening into uselessness– not with pain; not _just_ with pain.

His hands touched the sun-warmed bricks, rough with dried pigeon shit. He leaned his weight on his arms, ignoring the popping strain on his shoulders, and dropped his head. The scents and vibrations pounded against him, invaded him, bounced and slid off him. They carried his attention, tossing it on the surf of the dirty streets and blind alleyways full of discarded bottles, syringes and slimy condoms. They whispered at him their stories of muggings and scorings and blissful dreams on beds of refuse. He recoiled, wrenched his focus away, and was embraced by an open crossroad with its churning river of flesh and metal. It held him in the web of heartbeats and voices yelling of weddings and taxes and lunch dates and suicides. His city was pulling at him, eager to show him more, tell him more – of everything that he had missed, while his body was busy regrowing bits of itself. And now that he was back, the city pried him apart, spread him open and in all directions - beyond his ability to fall down and curl up - forcing him to drink in its oil and perfume, rot and alcohol, tears and giggles, urine and passion and dissolution and paralysing poison.

The city called to him. It clutched at him. It dizzied him. It sucked him down.

* * *

Karen's quiet knock on the door was not answered, and that did not surprise her. Matt knew they had the keys, but just how happy was he about that fact? That was one of the many things bothering her. Of course they did ask him whether they could continue using the sets they had made after changing the locks, and he did give them a non-committal nod – but it was another aspect of the barrier he was re-building. Perhaps she could've accepted it, if she could see him benefitting from this distance and independence, but - he wasn't. Whether it was physical or emotional pain that predominated, Karen could see that it was winning over him.

They spent most afternoons with him, and he was invariably politely thankful for the care they showed, for the groceries they brought and the updates from Foggy on his cases, but – beyond that - he barely interacted with them; tuned them out; was almost unresponsive when they attempted to engage him, and indifferent when they gave up for the night and left. And there was nothing they could do about it.

The one time that Karen did get a strong reaction from Matt - in the form of a look that was a lethal combination of horror and anger – was when she questioned out loud whether it was a mistake to leave the hospital. She dropped the subject immediately, but there was no doubt in her mind as to the answer, and she mentally punched and pummelled herself during her sleepless worrying nights.

Ironically, she was now getting even less sleep than when she spent her nights curled up in an armchair.

When she opened the door, she didn't call out. If Matt was awake, or even meditating, he knew she was here; if he wasn't – if the physio exhausted him enough for him to opt for sleep instead of suffering – she didn't want to disturb him. As she rounded the corner into the apartment's living area, she realised that reality presented option number three. The bright rectangle of afternoon light at the top of the stairs first surprised and then disturbed her. There was no reason for it, other than that it ran counter to Matt's behaviour: not once did he show any desire to be outside since he could leave the confines of the hospital bed, and it was another one of those things that fed her Matt-focused anxiety. So - this could be a good healthy change – she told herself, but her hands were cold and her chest – tight as she placed the paper bag of fresh steaks and vegetables on the floor, slipped her handbag off her shoulder and pulled her gun out. She held it in a two-handed grip, pointing the barrel down, and climbed the stairs. Her hands shook.

He was leaning far over the parapet that barely came up to his thighs. His hands were still braced on it, but his arms were trembling and Karen could see the quivers spreading all the way up to his shoulders. Even as she stood there, he seemed to lean further forward, meeting her horrified expectations, forcing her to toss Charon's coin: heads – she rushes to pull him back and startles him into overbalancing; tails – she merely calls to him, leaves the choice in his hands, watches as he gives in under the weight of depression, pain and hopelessness, and the liberating pull of gravity.

In the end, it all came down to choices - she realised - and his had all taken from him.

"Matt, please don't." Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, and quivering like her body was.

She heard him gasp; saw him push up and back, trying to straighten, failing, half-turning towards her, one arm still braced on the brick. She glimpsed terror and shame on his face, as if she caught him masturbating, but they slid off almost immediately, leaving him wide-eyed and thin-lipped.

"Why are you here?" - The question was clipped, spat at her, almost buffeted her into taking a step back… but it was also ludicrous.

"I am always here, Matt."

His nostrils flared, "I am not yours to protect! Or to save!" Rage twisted his face, "I am not your fucking mission in the name of pity, or justice, or the memory of a God damned fool in a mask! He doesn't exist, Karen. _I _don't exist. You walked away once. Do it again. Now! Stop chasing after fucking ghosts!"

Her shaking ceased.

"That what you think I've been doing?"

She stalked towards him, fury spiralling up in response, and stood glaring down at his half-bent form. He turned his head to track her, but didn't lift it - closing himself off from her burdensome presence.

She lifted it for him, with the muzzle of her gun digging in under his chin.

"You want me to go? You want to be left to die, Matt? You figure your God doesn't give a shit, so – what? You've been trying to get rid of us, so there'll be nothing left to hold you here? Well, if you want to go that much - there are surer ways!" Karen lowered the barrel away from his skin, grabbed his free hand and wrapped his fingers around the grip.

She stepped back, digging her nails into the palms of her hands to stop herself from shaking him or slapping him or pulling the goddamn trigger for him.

"What? What the hell are you waiting for? You can't do it with me standing here? Well, too bad Matt, cause I'm not leaving you!"

He opened his mouth; closed it. She could see anger now vying with astonishment on his face; the arm he was leaning on still trembling from the strain; his breathing short and sharp. He held the gun at his chest, barrel pointed over the drop beyond the parapet – it didn't move from where her hands left it. No, that was wrong: it trembled, too.

"You have your head so far up your miserable arse you don't even wonder whether you might be getting things wrong. So prick up your ears and let me spell it out for you, Matt. I have never _pitied _you! I've been scared for you. I've hurt for you. I've been fucking angry with you and I even hated you for the lies you told. For your lack of trust. So, yes, I've given up on you before… but _pity_?" she shook her head with all the vehemence filling her. "You may be the most broken person in New York - definitely the most arrogant - and maybe you do have a demon in you, forever torturing you, and maybe it is winning. But you are also the strongest, stubbornest, most generous, magnificent man I know. And this – what _he_ has done to you – it doesn't change any of that."

She stepped closer to him again; saw him flinch away in the slight straightening of his back, in the spasmodic clutching of his hand around the gun – but she had also reached her Rubicon.

"Matt, I don't know if you will ever heal enough to… to put on the mask and to take the streets on with your fists. I know this is what you want, that you believe it is an essential part of you - but you are so much _more_ than Daredevil. I know _– I promise you_ \- your life is worth living, worth saving… that there are so many people you can still help, with your mind, your heart – everything that is good about you, and there is so_, so _much of that. And you might see that if you quit punishing yourself for just one minute!"

She felt water drops on her cheeks, the rain surprising her, but she did not take her eyes off Matt long enough to glance at the sky.

"Whatever you will do, wherever the future takes you, you are treasured, cherished. You are loved, Matt Murdock, and you are not alone. I told you this before. You've never been alone and you never will be… unless it's what you keep fucking insisting on ... " – she found herself running out of breath, her words piling up in her throat, choking her in their determination to be let out. She swallowed; swiped at the rain drops blurring her vision, kept going – "… because no one can _make_ you want to live. I can't force you to continue fighting through this pain and through your nightmares. I get that this is your choice," she put her hand on his, which was still wrapped around the grip of the gun "but I am here, I am not going anywhere, …" her other hand touched his face, fingers skimming along his cheekbone "… and, as terrified as you might be of letting someone in, I can't believe you really want me to."

Her hand dropped from his cheek, and she saw the terrible misery twisting him. The fury folded its wings as she watched his eyes screwing shut, and then she dropped her gaze too.

"… But neither will I smother you," she sighed.

The words were all out, yet she still struggled for oxygen, and he still stood there irresolute on the threshold of nothingness, as she backed away giving him space. And the rain kept coming.


	9. Chapter 9

**(continued)**

She didn't get far.

"Karen… I can't… move."

Even without enhanced senses, she could tell that his words were squeezed through a razor mesh of shame and disgust.

"It's not the pain, not the … lack of strength. It's - the sound, the city. I hear people … needing help, not finding it… and I can't move, can't think. I _know_ I am not able to help, to do anything for … anyone, but - I hear… and I am paralysed."

She softly, cautiously walked back towards him. Understanding tickled the back of her mind, but she wasn't sure, and she didn't want to ask – afraid of him slamming even this tiny window. But he was silent again, breathing fast and shallow, his eyes still shut as if he was shielding himself. The choice became an imperative.

"Is it that you can't help… or… or… that, even if you could, because of what happened, you are now…" she took a deep breath, "… afraid to?" She held the next breath again.

His laugh was among the most miserable sounds she's heard him make.

"I know that I get called 'the man without fear', but I am well familiar with fear. I know its overwhelming power if it's not understood, not accepted. Fear has to be consciously balanced against purpose; its physical effects can then be managed, channelled into fuel. I've learned how to do that. I am good at it. This… this is worse. There is nothing to fear. Nothing to be understood. I hear or I feel someone in need, or even the sound of a siren and… it's as if the ropes are holding me again. I can't move. I _know it's not real_! But I can barely focus enough to breathe. Everything in my head becomes … useless. I can't orient myself. I can't _see_. It all becomes meaningless, as if … as if I am drunk … and not the good kind of drunk … and then all I hear is… his voice."

He squeezed his eyes again and the knuckles stood out white against the gun.

"So, you see, it will make no difference. Even if my strength returns, I will never be Daredevil again. I'll be lucky if I am able to make it out of my building. Even being inside … doesn't always prevent this."

"My God, how long have you suffered silently with this, on top of everything else you've endured?"

Matt didn't respond, but slowly, painfully, like an old man, lowered himself onto one knee, then carefully turned with his forearm braced against the low wall, until he was sitting on the concrete, with his back against the parapet, wincing and drawing up his legs.

She watched him in shock, and then grasped onto the last thing he said.

"Matt, we need to get you inside!"

He shook his head. Karen could see his chest expanding, pausing, contracting – in a pattern so obvious she knew he was putting all his energy into controlling it. The gun lay beside him, his hand pressed over it in possessiveness.

She sank down next to him, her arms wrapped around her own knees, curling forward and letting her temple rest on them as she looked at him, waiting for him to relax at least a tiny bit. When he did, she was careful to keep any accusation out of her voice.

"Why didn't you tell us?"

His mouth twisted, "And have you two worry about me even more? You were already doing so much. Barely sleeping. Besides, what could you do? What can anyone really do when God strikes with insanity?"

"Matt, this isn't insanity. I am not a shrink, but I'd bet dollars to doughnuts that's PTSD. A pretty severe form of PTSD that got way out of hand."

He huffed out his breath, "That's just a fancy word for insanity."

"No, insanity is what they locked people up for in dirty cells with holes drilled in their skulls, back when doctors didn't know any better. There are treatments now."

"Drugs? I am already on them … and you know I can't really talk to anyone – not to any … professional."

"Then it has to be us."

He sounded breathless again, and exhausted, "I can't let you do this, Karen. I can't let you continue to waste your time on a mad cripple; or your health; or your life. It's a simple equation. …"

"Oh for heaven's sake, Matt!"

"…The return is just not worth the investment!"

"Will you get it through your head that you are not something to be discarded on the basis of accounting? You are family, goddammit! Besides, it's not like I was ever under any illusion that you were without problems. You know, even back then… before I knew about Daredevil."

Matt frowned, the question on his face. Karen saw the approaching minefield, but kept going, glad that she managed to draw him into a conversation, at the very least. They had already talked more than they've done for weeks.

"Do you know how Foggy covered for you? For your absences, your injuries?"

"Oh that's right. Alcoholism. You believed him."

"No, Matt. I didn't. I've seen you drink, and I've rarely seen you drunk. But I did think there might've been… something."

"What?"

The minefield was just over the tree-line.

"Maybe other drugs of some kind…"

"Ha! I don't think I'd be even as poorly functional as I was, if I was on hard drugs."

"You'd be surprised at how functional one can appear, until … not."

Matt cocked his head, obviously reading her, the frown back on his face, and so was his concern for her, but this wasn't meant to be about her. She realised that her thoughts led her to this not by accident. There was a point to this, beyond the minefield.

So she answered his second unspoken question as calmly as she could, "It was cocaine. And it was stupid and selfish and I thought I could control… everything… but I couldn't. And … I destroyed my family," she took a deep breath and the dreaded next step, "I ended up killing my brother … in a car crash."

She saw the shock, and looked away before she could see the disgust or worse. She now aimed the story at her knees, forcing it past her mortification towards the crux.

"My dad… he was… he couldn't …. He needed me to leave. … So I ended up in some cheap motel, in another town – I don't even know the name of it - trying to swallow a whole bottle of old Valium … I don't remember how I ended up in a hospital… someone must've found me, taken me there… but I refused to tell them who I was or where I was from. I used a fake name at the hotel, paid cash… I didn't want anyone to… to find my dad… to tell him… So, I was alone. I _chose_ that... They kept me in a mental ward and every day I kept choosing to remain alone, convinced that that was the best for everyone, and what I deserved. And the only reason I survived was because I was strapped to a bed and force-fed Zoloft and antipsychotics."

She hugged her knees even tighter, and, out of the corner of her eye, saw Matt lick his lips, about to say something, so she turned her head towards him again and rushed on, "Wait… Here's the thing, Matt – I was wrong. I am not sure if I could've made different choices back then, but I was still wrong to push everyone away, even the people in the hospital who were trying to help me. What happened was _all_ my fault. I live with it every day, and I'll probably never be able to… to atone for it, but, if I had died … then the destruction is all I would've left behind. I got lucky. I got a chance to do something… better … and, though I haven't seen my dad since then, we do speak on the phone sometimes, and I help him when I can, and … and I didn't cause him more pain, because he would've found out eventually ..."

Karen dropped her arms and turned fully to face him.

"I am not trying to compare… the mess I made to what happened to you, and… I am not saying I know exactly what you are going through… I wish I did, but… I just don't want you to give up. I don't want you to deliberately condemn yourself to being alone, to dealing with everything alone, when you don't need to be, and… you shouldn't be. Please, don't do this," she repeated her first words to him, closing the circle, knowing that she hit almost every landmine. Even if he should turn down her friendship in mistrust and disappointment, there was Foggy; that maybe she convinced him enough to let Foggy in.

Matt's head was still cocked, his eyes seeming to stare at her shoulder; there was consternation in his face, his brow furrowed, the lines smoothing and deepening in response to his search inside of her. She felt like a frog on the dissecting table, and she would've been offended if she wasn't the one who had done the initial cutting: he was simply peering under the flaps of skin and organs she had exposed.

"You are scared," he eventually whispered, "why?"

God, so many reasons on the surface, but, really, they all flowed into one, didn't they?

"I am scared to lose you, Matt. I am scared that nothing I can say will change your mind. I am scared that the evils of my past give you another reason to push me away."

"Am I a part of your… atonement?"

Another jumble of thoughts, and she really wished she had the time to sort them out, but something within her understood that time would've also diluted honesty. So she spoke all she knew in that moment, looking straight at him.

"I don't know, Matt. Maybe. I cannot say how big a role it plays, because what I did … the consequences… it's all a part of my life and who I am. All I know is that you are family to me. You and Foggy. Maybe because I don't have any other anymore, but that's the way it is. If I see you suffering and struggling, I will do what I can – everything I can – to help. Because families are fragile, but they are everything, no matter where they come from."

Karen saw that his chest moved freely and naturally, and the perspiration on his forehead had dried. Matt's lips twitched at the corners, "Yet you didn't want me to know, and I am guessing Foggy doesn't know either … No, I get it. Far be it for me to cast the first stone here. I think Foggy is the only one who doesn't have any demons in his closet. Or he is a lot better at hiding them than we are."

"Not that I want to make this a competition, but when it comes to demons, I think I might have yours beat, Matt."

This time, Matt's laugh was genuine, if short, "Be gentle with yourself, Karen."

She smiled in return, "Maybe you can heed the same advice?"

He closed his eyes again, leaning his head back against the wall's edge, staying silent. His breathing quickened and Karen laid her hand on his knee.

"The sun is almost down. I am getting cold out here, can we go inside?"

Heartbeats counted out the seconds, and then he nodded. He turned sideways again, reversing his careful movements, kneeling up and balancing himself with a hand against the brick. Karen was on her feet already and, as he paused, she held out her hand, close enough for him to grasp it, far enough to not hover. His hand closed around her forearm. When he stood, she slid to his side and he put his arm over her shoulders.

The gun lay forgotten next to the parapet.

* * *

The night fell, Foggy had already left – clearly confused, clearly worried, suspecting that something had happened, but having no opening to even hint at a question. Matt was even less communicative than usual, he barely ate, but he was _present_ in a way that he has not been since he came home from the hospital. Karen could tell that much by the movements of his head, seeming to always track her steps around his kitchen and living area, focusing on her.

She sat down next to him on the couch and he stiffened, swallowed, cocked his head towards her. She couldn't predict what he was expecting, but this was too vital to start second-guessing herself now.

"I don't think you should be alone. At least, not tonight… but I told you I won't smother you, and I won't. But I also won't let you deny yourself the basic need for companionship out of some misguided sense of… of shame, or pride, or … or undeservedness… So, I will ask you now, do you want to be alone? And if the answer is 'yes' – that's fine – it's your choice and I get it … but if the answer is 'no' – well… that's fine too," she tried to smile, her hands clasped together in her lap.

Matt licked his lips, swallowed again, turned his head fully towards her, frowning – in denial, or frustration, or despair, or disbelief – Karen couldn't tell faced with the twin red mirrors of his glasses. He took a deep breath in, opened his mouth, and then shut it again, breathing out, dropping his chin to his chest. His hand twitched, then lifted and came down over hers.

Karen let out her own held breath, "It's OK. I'll stay then."

* * *

When he jerked up in his bed, gasping in the middle of the night, sleep-warm hands covered his scars, and a voice whispered that he was safe, he was home – and he believed her.


	10. Chapter 10

_"Let the morning bring me word of Your unfailing love." – _Psalms 143:8

**02597 (next morning)**

The gentle rub of her hands on his skin roused him in the morning just as the nightmares began to coalesce into another attack on his psyche. He kept still through the disorientation - the tax he paid for being wrenched out of the dream-state. Once he was certain that his mind readjusted to the concept of reality and was going to respond to real stimuli, rather than imaginary ones, he took stock of his physical state. Then wished he hadn't. He felt as if cement was poured into the blood vessels running across his shoulders, chest and back. The thought of attempting to move, to sit up, to get out of bed - nearly brought tears to his eyes, and, piggybacking on this, came the perpetual sense of exhaustion, the shame of weakness, and the memories of yesterday. And then, unexpectedly, there was relief. Somehow, despite all of his resistance, just sharing the burden gave him real hope of surviving it.

A part of him still clamoured that he had no business continuing to live with his physical and spiritual deformities, but, since yesterday, that part seemed to be less a voice of cold reason, and more that of a petulant Rumpelstiltskin. Lying there in his bed, with Karen's palms still resting on his arms, he realised that this tinge of hope was not baseless: while he had spectacularly failed in his desperate attempt to master the paralysis by facing it in a head-on exposure, the shocking gravity of her rage and distress overpowered his own, and coalesced his scattered consciousness. The immobilizing sense of powerlessness had retreated almost completely as he listened to Karen's halting, brave stripping of her own soul. His focus on her heartbeat, on her facial muscles, on the temperature of her skin and the drawing of her breath was so predominant – the ruckus of Hell's Kitchen retreated. It didn't _disappear._ It faded. He was left tense with sympathy and apprehension for the lonely young woman, who was drowning while trying to cope with the repercussions of foolish decisions - but he was not frozen, and his mind was not hijacked into the state of fractured numbness. The paralysis did not begin to return until they stopped talking, and it backed off again when he slung his arm around her shoulders.

As yesterday's evening wore on, he zeroed in on her heartbeat wherever she was. It wasn't a magical remedy. The cop sirens, the drunken beatings, the attempted rape of a hooker in a parked car – all were heard, all had their expected effect on his shattered nerve system, but the mental release of no longer having to _pretend_ \- and the peace of her pulse as she immersed herself in her own meditative activities of dinner preparation – they guided him out of the fugues faster than ever.

It shouldn't have surprised him. He had spent three months clutching at Karen's hand and heartbeat against the physical pain, but the ease with which his body and mind, once permitted, gave over their stresses in her presence - paradoxically frightened him. Not enough for him to resist though, when she offered to stay. He suspected that it wasn't going to be enough tonight either, should she repeat her offer. It wasn't enough now, when she bade him to roll over onto his stomach – an effort that nearly had him crying - and then proceeded to gently knead heat, life and movement into his overstrained body.

He wondered if she was right: as terrified as he was – for her safety, for his sanity – his simple desire to not be alone anymore was going to overpower all of his misgivings.

* * *

Karen stayed with him for three nights. She slept in his bed, for neither one of them could take the couch – the ubiquitous neon sign would not permit sleep for her, and the couch itself would amount to torture for him.

During that time Matt felt like he was learning how to breathe again.

* * *

On the fourth day, Karen woke him up and then disappeared. He found her sitting at the top of the stairs across the open doorway to the rooftop – her back against the doorjamb, her legs resting on the top riser, crossed at the ankles. A plate piled with buttered fruit toast sat by her, next to two cups of coffee, and she was munching on a slice as she looked outside - at the squabbling of pigeons, from what Matt could tell.

She spotted him and came down, still holding the piece of bread that smelled of cinnamon and milk and old burned crumbs from the toaster oven.

"Come," she said, "Let's try this."

"Now?"

"You said - mornings were the best." She took his hand and led him behind her, back up the stairs.

The pigeons ignored their movements and continued to fill his ears with flapping of feathers, scrapes of claws on concrete and purring squawks. Beyond them – the snap of linen on a balcony of the building opposite, the sound of a mother – already harried and frustrated – hounding her three young boys through the morning routine; retorts of a rattling car exhaust, male voices rising in an argument as they counted money, babble of the awakening city opening up like a black hole.

Her hand squeezed his - hard, but her voice was soft, "Hey, come back."

Matt startled, blinked and focused on her heartbeat – not too steady, probably apprehensive at the role she had taken on, but her hand felt strong and sure. He sat down on the top step with his back to the wall, while she remained in the breeze coming through the doorway.

"So… how do we do this?"

"We can just sit. Don't have to do anything beyond that today."

"Or?"

"If you want… when you are ready, tell me what you hear – what you can sense. And, if it starts … claiming too much of you… see if you can pull your attention back here. But try not to stop talking to me. It's like… a link to consciousness."

"And a link back."

"Yeah, something like that."

Matt nodded and took a deep breath, then let his focus extend to the outside again.

"They've been feeding in a dumpster behind the bakery two blocks over, one is sick – something wrong with its respiration… most are young… one's been attacked by something recently – cat, maybe possum – there are claw marks… Taking off…three, four now, dozen – heading towards 49th… a couple settled on the powerlines… there's a boy walking beneath, eating a piece of bread… stale bread, dropping crumbs everywhere – his clothes are unwashed, sweaty, stained with food… and blood … not much, but… he is bruised - chest, side – he favours it every other step… crossing the street now, jostled by someone, they move away… " – Matt shook his head, catching the words "stink" and "trash" he heard muttered. The boy was drawing away, his tell-tale signs getting lost in the multitude of signals all around him. Matt gathered the voices and noises from that part of the street, sifting through the bits of conversation. There were too many - he couldn't process them fast enough to repeat – until one caught his attention: another argument, but it wasn't the words that caused his mental double-take - it was the heartbeat of one of the speakers. Arrhythmic, struggling, the large body - like a clammy sack of flesh, the arteries within it clogged, the lungs bellowing in and out, providing too little oxygen for their efforts. As he listened, the whistling of the lungs came faster, shallower. Matt couldn't understand how the man's bulk was still upright, still moving; how he was still arguing with his female companion over whether her brother could join their … game? party? … It wasn't important – it wasn't going to happen unless the man got some help, fast! The heartbeat stuttered even more, and Matt concentrated with all his might to try to get as much information as he could to identify this walking corpse, but numbness was stealing over him, scattering his senses yet again…

Talk. He must talk.

"There's a man, near 46th and 10th – having a heart attack. He doesn't know. He was hyperventilating … but I … lost him…" Talking was interfering with his hearing, bringing him back to the awareness of himself, of Karen's hand squeezing his, of his own lungs heaving in near-panic.

"I can call 911, Matt. I'll get my phone." Her hand left his.

He forced himself to take five deep slow breaths, and cast his sensory net again, back to that street corner, and found the struggling heartbeat barely fifty feet away. The man's breathing seemed a lot steadier though. So was his own.

He heard Karen's voice near him, splitting his attention, oscillating it between feeding information for her to relay, and verifying the man's movements. He was almost relieved when the man finally paused in his arguing and sank down on the sidewalk: at the very least, the commotion beginning around him would be easy for the EMTs to spot.

Matt thumped his head back against the wall and blinked the sweat out of his eyes. Karen sank down next to him, her shoulder and knee brushing his, her heart going as fast as his, but it was still an anchor for him… and the numbness was gone.

"I am not sure if this is how you foresaw the first therapy session going, Dr Page, but … it wasn't… entirely unsuccessful."

Karen laughed, "You probably saved another life, Mr Murdock. I think you can definitely claim some success." She shook her head, paused and then added, "That was … unbelievable… even to witness…"

Matt smiled, and the smile did not feel put-on, "You did a fair bit more than just witness."

* * *

When Karen offered to stay on the fourth night, Matt said no.

"It is easy to say 'yes'. You make it easy. But… I think we both need for me to manage, at least some of the nights. For the long term."

He could sense her apprehension, but she did not argue.

"Karen … " he licked his lips, battling within, "Don't stop asking."


	11. Chapter 11

_"For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope."– _Jeremiah 29:11

**02988**

"How are you doing, Matthew?"

Matt almost spoke, almost denied everything. Finally, quietly: "I struggle, Father."

"I am glad to hear you say that," the priest smiled, "Not because I am such a hard-ass Catholic that I think struggling and pain are good for the soul, but because it would be inhuman to not be struggling in your situation. But - pardon me for saying this - it would be a very Murdock thing to not admit it."

It was Matt's turn to smile wryly, "Touché, Father."

"Are you admitting it to our Lord?"

"Ah, He isn't that inclined to listen."

"Told you that, did He?"

"He didn't have to."

"You know, Matthew, whether you believe the Bible is allegorical, or full of factual accounts, there's one thing that comes through clearly: God isn't always kind to those he singles out with His love. In fact, it seems to be pretty bad for one's health to be a servant of the Lord. Look what He's done to his own Son, and countless other saints."

"I am not a saint, Father, and what is inside of me comes from a very different neighbourhood. That I am very clear on."

"I don't know what you are, Matthew, but how many of those people that our church has recognised as martyred saints believed they were worthy of the title? Especially in the time of their extremity? How many of them wouldn't have sifted through their lives, as they prepared to burn, wondering what they've done to anger God so, and whether they were ever on the right track to begin with?"

"Job hadn't. That is the whole point of that story, is it not?"

"Oh yes, the righteous Job ... Now his story is either the most allegorical of all, or he simply lost his marbles when the first of the disasters hit him... or, perhaps, Captain America is even older than we are led to believe."

Matt's look of eyebrow-raised astonishment was again answered by a sombre half-smile from Father Lantom.

"Matthew, I do not understand the mind of God, or His Plan, and I cannot give meaning to your suffering. That is between you and Him, and maybe it will never make sufficient sense to you. Maybe that's the point. But I do believe that He does not waste His miracles. You may call it an accident of science what happened to you when you lost your sight, but - what happened to you recently - the fact that you are still here, talking to me... No, Matthew, lightning does not strike the same tree twice and leave it standing, unless there's a strong reason for that tree to keep living."

He looked straight into Matt's unseeing eyes.

"Even when death seems a much more... sensible and attractive alternative."

Matt lowered his head, and the priest gave him the space while finishing the rest of his coffee.

He then asked softly, "Tell me... am I including you in my Communion rounds, until you are strong enough to come to Mass again?"

It took some time but, in the end, Matt nodded.

* * *

**04549**

"Are you sure about this, buddy?"

"Yeah. Absolutely. It's only a few blocks."

"A few blocks in the middle of the lunch hour. I mean, talk about sensory mayhem!"

Matt smiled, "It's always sensory mayhem out here. I'll be alright."

"Well, my job is not to question, my job is to escort – a job that I am well used to since college, when you failed to develop a respectable level of tolerance for cheap whiskey and cheaper beer." Foggy held his elbow out to Matt with a flourish, "Shall we?"

Matt folded the cane and lightly grasped the elbow, still smiling.

Not that it was an easy stroll through the city. It did take a ludicrous amount of concentration for him to keep all the filters up; to not be carried away into stultifying anxiety from the sheer promise of distress behind the press of smells and sounds. Foggy was right on the money with the term he coined, and Matt couldn't remember the 'sensory mayhem' being this hard to manage, even when he was a kid and learning these techniques for the first time. But the techniques did work, and he was not too proud to admit that they worked because Karen helped him find the space, the patience and the trust in himself to make them work again. Now it was just a matter of practice.

Just as getting himself up to speed with his work was a matter of patience and practice, and the gradual reduction of the psychotropic medicine dose, which increased his ability to focus during the day, but also intensified his evening and night-time struggles. Yet again, his friends were there to cushion the brunt of it: to focus him, to distract him, or to simply accept when a wave of depression, borne on the ever-present physical pain and lurking memories, managed to engulf him. He knew he owed them the most at those times, when he forced them to walk the invisible tightrope between giving him the space to grieve and rage, and barring the door to the suicidal despair spun out of shame, doubt and loneliness.

They weren't perfect. Hell, no! But if they were, they probably would not have succeeded in keeping him anchored to reality. Matt had realised this in one of the clear moments of self-reflection, that running head-first into their fed-up anger - sparked the fight in him, and pulled him out of the self-destructive vortex. He had no idea how he was ever going to repay them, but he suspected that the very thought of even trying would be offensive to them … and he had even less of an idea of what to do with that.

His physical recovery was still so excruciatingly slow that he periodically wondered if this half-crippled state was the best he would ever achieve. Yet, today, as he walked the familiar path with Foggy, he could almost forget the constant fatigue in his back that threatened to turn into shards of glass by the end of the day. He could almost forget that it's been nearly two years since he last shared this journey with his best friend and, if asked at that moment, he would've been hard-pressed to explain why it all fell apart.

Perhaps Foggy's memory was not as kind or selective, for when they got to their destination, he realised that Foggy failed to follow him through the door, and mentally punched himself, listening to the asynchronous percussion of his friend's rising heartbeat. What was worse – there was absolutely nothing he could think to say that would not sound trite and inadequate. What could he say when his choices led the Devil to ripping the heart out of the place they built on their combined dreams of lawful justice? He tried anyway, with a stumbling "I am sorry…" but a coughing fit prevented him from saying anything more.

Foggy shook his head and replastered the lost smile back onto his face, "It's OK, buddy. What's done is done. You know me - I am a look forward kinda guy."

He walked to the desk in front of the window, laid his palm on it, preparing to deposit his bag on it, then paused, turning his hand over.

"I ain't the most exacting guy in the world, but the first thing we gotta do is clean this place up, unless you want to develop asthma or tuberculosis or some other equally-dreadful lung-destroying disease. From the look of it, you weren't much into changing things around, so," he walked over to the tiny kitchenette, rummaged under the sink and emerged with a triumphant, "Ah huh!"

The next thing that Matt clearly identified was a chemical bomb, in the form of a rag soaked with a surface cleaner flying towards him. He caught it with his arm outstretched, averting his face, grimacing and grinning.

"I am going to try and get some of these windows open then, before you completely poison the air. And if my memory doesn't deceive me, we are going to need gas masks before either of us opens that fridge."

Before they even touched the door to the fridge, there was a knock on the door to the office. Matt pulled his glasses out of his pocket, before exaggeratedly feeling for the handle to let the visitor in.

"Dios mio! Señor Murdock! It is you! I could not believe when I saw you walk up the street. It is so good to see you. See you back. See you healthy. It is such relief." The wrinkles in the weathered face of the man were deepened by a huge smile.

"Señor Álvarez, hello, please come in." The man's beaming face pressed on Matt's senses as he stood aside, clearing the doorway. He extended his hand and the old Columbian grabbed it in both of his, squeezing it between the rough palms and nicotine-stained fingers.

"You gone so long. We know. Everyone know, but to see you here again… Gloria a Dios." It appeared the miracle overwhelmed the visitor too much for further words, allowing Matt to at least try and prevent the color from rising to his cheeks.

"Mr Álvarez! Hello! How are your boys?" Foggy appeared from behind him.

"Señor Nelson! Ah, my boys they do well. Miguel – he work as foreman at the docks. Stayed clear of trouble since you helped. And Pedro – he in community college. Has good head Pedro. Will make us proud. They both make us proud. And you, Señor Nelson, you back too, yes? You together – so strong! You help so many people. We remember. We always remember."

Foggy grinned, "I have planted my flag elsewhere. It's Matt's practice now, but, with such a strong vote of confidence, maybe he should consider looking for an associate soon."

"Ah well. Things don't last, but God – He is good. He look after you both, _no? Ah, I will not take up time from you, but … so glad, yes, so glad."_

_The old man continued standing in front of Matt, who felt as if he was Lazarus on display. He should've been used to it; all his life he was the object of stares - of admiration usually reserved for circus animals performing feats that endowed them with the appearance of human qualities. His blindness made people careless in concealing their reactions; they openly did double-takes when he walked through the college, expressed their amazement at the blind man making it to an Ivy League school, as if his affliction had also made him deaf. He had long taught himself to be amused by this oafishness revealed to him by his unique senses. _

_But this – this morbid curiosity for the un-dead – rankled him. There were no super-senses to compensate for these defects. He would be congratulated as a survivor when he could hardly claim ownership of even this achievement. He would be marvelled at, and told to praise God for retaining most of his physical ability when he knew it was but a tiny fraction of what used to be Daredevil's. He would have to learn to agree, he would have to force himself to be polite, but inside…. Then he admonished himself for the mental ingratitude: in the end, this was his community, his people – the ones he fought Fisk for; the ones he nearly died for - and they genuinely rejoiced in his apparent resurrection. If the only help he could provide for them now was from this office, he had to first learn to be satisfied with that - stares, whispers, pity and all. _

"Well, that's the best advertisement you could've possibly received," Foggy clapped him on the back after the door closed behind the Columbian, "You'll be fully back in business by the end of the day."

Matt forced out a smile, but couldn't keep it going when Foggy turned his back and walked with a cleaning rag into his former office. Dusty or clean, the emptiness there would remain, and Matt _now_ clearly remembered each sharp, uncompromising word he uttered to drive Foggy into abandoning their partnership, and the deceitful relief he felt when Foggy did as he was pushed to do. He had no cause to be surprised and no right to be disappointed at the leisurely way with which Foggy dismissed Señor Álvarez's assumption.

He would have to learn to be satisfied with just this office, this job, this firm that was as crippled as him – chasing justice without its heart, without its teeth.


	12. Chapter 12

_"She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future."_\- Proverbs 31:25

**04895**

He thought he knew Karen. After months being near her while in the hospital, learning the unconscious ticks and twitches that were the physical tells of the workings of her mind, mapping the cycle of her hormones by the changing of her scent - he knew her on a level that she would probably find embarrassing. Now that she spent so much time in his home, the intricate minutia of her essence opened up to a degree that astonished even him. He knew when she was deep into research by the small smacking sounds she made as she worried her bottom lip with her teeth; how her body grew hungry and was repeatedly ignored, until her stomach growled its displeasure loud enough for him to want to yell at her "eat something before you deafen me". He knew just how much time (and electricity) it took for her fine silky hair to lie in the glorious waves he felt against his hands and cheeks when she hugged him. He now knew a myriad other frustrating, surprising and endearing aspects of her.

He figured it was only fair, since she managed to fold herself into his broken psyche despite his guilty reservations and without the benefit of extraordinary senses.

* * *

Lifting the weights hurt, but it was the right sort of pain of well-worked muscles, not the tearing, stabbing pain of injury inflicted from over-strain. What's more, it's been weeks since he ran into his body's outright resistance, where the muscles simply seized up in the middle of the set, leaving him sweaty with frustration and despair. He was still extremely weak, but he now felt himself making steady progress, instead of being trapped in a constant hellish circle bordered by incapacity.

He dropped the dumbbell on the couch, listening to the sound of fingers on the laptop keyboard, interspersed by the soft whispers of half-formed sentences and the crunching of peanuts, which came from the kitchen counter. A thought occurred and he followed through without examining it further. He simply dropped down onto his hands and knees, extended his legs out and slowly bent his arms lowering his chest towards the floor. His shoulders trembled, and for a split second he thought that he wasn't going to be able to stop the descent, but his arms steadied and he pushed up gritting his teeth, breathing out with a groan. He took two more steadying breaths and lowered himself again on the third. He could hear the buzz that the twitching fibres made as he pushed up again, and this time he nearly yelled with effort. He knew that a third push-up would cause damage, but two was enough – more than he thought he would be able to achieve for months, if ever.

He knelt up, exaltation pulsing through him, wiping his hands on his sweats, only then becoming aware of the stillness from the kitchen. Karen's attention was fully on him. He heard the whisper of her skirt, the soft clack of her shoes as she slid off the bar stool, the crinkle of skin at the corners of her mouth and eyes as she smiled, her heart speeding up in a rhythm mirroring his joy. Then her hands brushed his sweaty temples, came around his shoulders, and her lips touched his, landing softly in a platonic embrace and so briefly that he could've wondered if he imagined it. She walked back to her article and her peanuts, and he found himself grinning like a fool.

Her kiss then was brief and light, but when she climbed into bed next to him that night, and he reached for her with his arms and mouth – her response was anything but platonic. He knew her hunger as she peeled the sweatpants off his hips and shucked her own pyjamas – simply pulling the top over her head without even bothering to undo the buttons. There was nothing platonic in the way she put her palms against his shoulders where the tendrils of scars began their haphazard weave, and pushed him down onto his back, swinging her leg over him.

Her knees hugged his ribs, her hands pressed against his chest, her smell of citrus and arousal filled his nostrils and crept into his pores, her mane of hair – a curtain around their faces as their lips and tongues teased each other. She raised her hips, shifted and embraced him inside her body, raising goosebumps that he could feel along his arms and through the pads of his fingers as they roamed her skin. Her hands were now braced on either side of his head, and the rhythm that she set was a slow and gentle rock. A thought flitted through the all-encompassing sensation that this was a far cry from his long-ago fantasies of how their first time would be, and the benefits of his strength and endurance that he would've offered for her pleasure. He didn't have the strength, and it's been far too long for him to have any endurance - even now he could feel the impending orgasm building with an immutable force – but he could not imagine anything more perfect. He floated free of all pain and thought and guilt in pure bliss, feeling her springy walls pulling and pulsing around him. She shifted again, wriggling against him, needing more friction, so he tilted his hips, brushing his thumbs against her nipples, and felt her first wave of tremors. They subsided, but he knew they'd be back, and he indulged in the high that she built in him while chasing her own. She crested again, held back, her every involuntary shiver rolling through him, then clenched, crying out, and he wanted to keep basking in her sounds, but he was coming himself and it was his own moans he heard vibrating his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her down against him as he drove deeper, his face pressing into her neck, her sweat mingling with his tears, his sperm washing into her, his awareness contracted to encompass her, only her – her body and her soul accepting him by some miracle that he could understand no more than he could understand God's plans.

He held onto Karen with breathless terror and wonder, overwhelmed by the seamless intermingling of certainty and vulnerability, soundlessly shivering against her without shame or restraint.


	13. Chapter 13

**_"_**_May He give you the desire of your heart and make all your plans succeed" – _Psalms 20:4

Claire sought the man in him - one who stood up for the innocent and walked in the light with them.

Elektra sparkled in the Devil's inferno and wove through the shadows cast by flames.

Karen saw both - and flinched at neither.

* * *

**05275**

"Give me your scarf."

"What?" - Derailed from her train of thought, Karen had no guideposts for Matt's sudden demand.

He was impatient - "In your bag."

She dipped her hand in and found the colourful gauzy thing that was Foggy's present to her, for her birthday. It was pretty, but decorative scarves were not her thing – so she wore it once, to appease the present-giver, stuffed it into her bag and forgot about it. Obviously, Matt hadn't. Or he somehow smelled it, or something.

Now he was haphazardly folding it lengthwise and tying it across the top half of his face.

"Call the cops. Alleyway on the left, two blocks up," and he was off running into the night.

Cursing him for the ten different kinds of fool that he was, Karen dialled 911 with one hand, while working off the straps of her high-heeled sandals with the other, and took off after Matt as soon as both tasks were done.

She was still too late.

The body of the man lay in a pile of refuse and jerked in response to the kicks that the young woman was driving into his ribs and stomach. Otherwise, the dead-end alley was empty.

Karen called out as quietly and calmly as her panting would allow, and was immediately met with a look of haunted sparkling rage.

"Hey, it's OK, the cops are on their way and you'll be able to press the charges. But… you better stop doing that before they get here."

The woman delivered one last vicious kick to the man's groin and stumbled to the opposite side of the alley, leaning back against a wall as Karen carefully approached.

"Looks like this asshole picked the wrong target."

The woman sobbed or laughed weakly, "I got lucky. There was another man here. Appeared out of nowhere. He grabbed this son of a bitch off me and ran him head-first into the wall. Bugged out up that fire-escape after. Maybe it was even him – the Devil – returned ..."

It took Karen the best part of an hour to get disentangled from the cops' questions and assure herself that the woman would have support on the other side of the EMT-assisted trip. She also scribbled down Foggy's office number for her, just in case. She remained calm enough for her role as an accidental witness – largely thanks to a short text message that vibrated her phone - but still hailed a cab to rush her the six or so blocks to Matt's building.

He was sitting on the couch, his left arm folded across his middle, the fingers of the right hand carefully feeling around his left shoulder, the rigidity of his posture broadcasting pain. Then he stood up, and she saw the quiet satisfaction in his grin.

"Did the cops get what they need to lay charges?"

"I think so. At least the girl seems determined to follow through, and she tells a pretty coherent story… which includes the reappearance of Daredevil in Hell's Kitchen."

Matt's grin widened even further, as he walked up to Karen and ran his hand lightly through her hair and down her arm, settling around her fingers.

"I am well aware that this will have to remain as a single unsubstantiated rumour. I am not ready. Not yet."

Concern got mixed with exasperation and pride in her sigh, and she gently touched the arm still folded across his chest.

"How bad did you hurt yourself?"

"I'll definitely feel it tomorrow. Half-popped my shoulder too, so I'll do a check-up with Dr Wali. Just so that you don't think I am a complete idiot."

"Yeah, too late for that, Matt," but she was smiling too.

* * *

**06355**

"I got some damn good news," Foggy announced straight up, when Matt opened the door, "Except we first gotta come clean on something..." he marched in and called, "Karen? I am gonna need your backup on this, cause I ain't doing it alone!"

"Am I going to struggle to remember that this is 'good news'?" Matt followed him back into the living space.

"Not sure, buddy, but the important thing for you to remember is that I am awesome!"

"Spill it… I need a clue what I am supposed to be backing you up on."

"That case against the insurance company? New York's most tenacious and resourceful lawyer – that being yours truly, of course – has finally settled it! They coughed up! Standard non-disclosure agreements apply, so unfortunately we can't use the precedent to help any other victims of their rorting, but – we are debt-free! Well, at least that debt. Couldn't get enough out of them to cover my student debt, but…"

He was interrupted by a squealing woman doing her damnedest attempt at a bear-hug.

"I knew it, Foggy! Yep, you are definitely awesome!"

He glanced over at Matt, who had a half-bemused, half-frustrated look to him, and reminded himself not to enjoy this too much, yet.

"I am guessing it's my health insurance company you are talking about. They never paid."

"Now they will!"

"And you were carrying the bills until now? _Both _of you?"

"All true, and we were always going to tell you, whether I managed to threaten sense into them or not… Not that the outcome was ever under any doubt." - Foggy saw Matt's lips tighten – "But, seriously buddy, this is the last one. The last secret between us. Like, ever. Not least of it because lying to you is so damn hard I had to pick the times to reassure you about your insurance when I knew you'd have your senses half shut-down by drugs, and I'd rather you were never again addled by those drugs."

"Why didn't you just tell me?"

Foggy could see the anger building in Matt at an alarming rate, and that Karen was opening her mouth to fulfil her obligations as his backup, but he found that he didn't need her after all.

"Because, Matt, you had your hands full dealing with the horrendous pain, and convincing yourself to keep breathing from one day to the next. And, as much as we would've given anything to be able to help you there - we couldn't. This, though - this we could handle. So we did."

"That still doesn't answer the question. I've been back - working - for a while now. You could've told me. You didn't have to carry this alone!"

Foggy very much hoped that he looked calm, but suspected that Matt would smell his nervousness anyway. He reminded himself that he expected this sort of reaction from his perpetually guilt-ridden best friend, who still couldn't accept that they did this not out of charitable kindness, but because any alternative was unthinkable.

"We did, because what you do is too important to be threatened by financial pressures. You help people – people who are desperate and cannot find help elsewhere, and have nothing to pay you with. You are fighting the good fight here; and this is something you can do now, even if you can't yet do the Daredevil thing," he glanced over at Karen and added, "So – this - this is us doing our part."

Matt's face took on the focused stillness that told him that Matt was once again disregarding any ethical boundaries of privacy and delving right into the physical expressions of their souls, and it did not bother him one bit – he was an open book tonight. Apparently, whatever Matt gleaned from their heartbeats or blood pressure, or amount of sweat they exuded, put paid to all the arguments that Foggy was sure were arrayed in his mind.

"You should not... It wasn't…" - Matt licked his lips and stopped, before admitting, "I don't know what to say… "

"Matt Murdock - the lawyer extraordinaire who could talk circles around every crusty old prof at Columbia Law - rendered speechless! That's all the reward I'll ever need." – Foggy was grateful his tongue covered for the relief he felt – "Actually, nah, it's not. I want a beer! And pizza!"

"We could arrange that," Karen laughed, "In fact, you can get the beer out yourself."

Foggy made sure his theatrical sigh exacted the expected eye-roll from Karen, and wandered into the kitchen.

"How about a partnership?" Matt's voice froze Foggy's hand on the fridge-door handle. He looked over at Matt and, at first, couldn't quite identify the expression on his face, until it hit him: it's been so long since he had seen real hopeful anticipation there. Foggy's mind responded in a cloud of memories of their mornings spent listening to the legal heartaches of one member of their community after another; of the nights burned wading through case laws and the bureaucratic minutia of regulations, throwing increasingly silly jokes at each as the clocks crept past 2 am. The hope rose in him too.

"You know what, buddy, this whole steady income and quality furniture thing is not all it's cracked up to be. Not to mention that the evening conversations with Marci lost their freshness, since we both hear the same gossip in the corridors. So, yeah, why not! Let 'Nelson and Murdock' ride again. Or should it be 'Murdock and Nelson' this time?"

Matt grinned, "How about 'Nelson, Murdock and Page'?" he turned towards Karen, who was looking at her laptop screen displaying a large number of appetising photos of pizzas.

She didn't even raise her head.

"Ha! I told you – someone has got to make some money around here. Unless you two are planning to save the world without resorting to electricity or wifi," she moved her finger on the mousepad, "OK, 'Super-Special' or the 'Chilly Supreme' tonight? I vote for 'Chilly'!"

"Heartburn – here I come," Foggy seconded her motion.

Matt's grin widened.


	14. Chapter 14

_"A time to love, and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace._" – Ecclesiastes 3:8

**08760**

Matt bounded along the rooftop, gaining on the four teens that have just made some extremely poor life choices. The kind of choices that put a convenience store owner into a hospital with a major concussion. Matt was too late to stop the attack – all he could do was call 911 and then scramble up the nearest dumpster, pipe and ledge onto his personal streetscape above the city.

Now he was nearly parallel to them. They were only several blocks away from the scene of their crime, but the young thugs were confident enough in their invincibility that they slowed down to a stroll. Matt counted four knives, a crowbar and a baseball bat among them. There were no firearms, and he considered all of them lucky in this. He paused, letting them get just slightly ahead of him, gathering all of the luck and advantage of surprise on his side. Perhaps a year ago he would not have; perhaps he would've tried to reason with them, or to front and bully them into giving themselves up to the cops without any unnecessary bloodshed. Now – resources and patience were at a low, and the need for practice – high.

His skin itched and crawled beneath the red suit that fitted ill across his shoulders. He was too hot, too uncomfortable, feeling both too bulky and too weak. His body no longer filled out the image he embraced, and he struggled with meeting the need for stealth and cunning, desperate to inject real actions into the gaps. He ignored Karen's quiet apprehension, ruthlessly overrode the words of caution from Foggy, silenced the voice of reason inside his own mind. Whatever Entity it was that drove him – be It celestial or hell-bound – he already spent too many fruitless nights trying to interpret Its will, and to solve the riddle of sin and justice. The only clear answer he relentlessly ended up with was that he _needed_ this. The people he helped, the retribution he delivered, the crimes he prevented - more than made up for the selfishness of using Hell Kitchen's thugs to defeat his own helplessness.

The roof he trod was two storeys up, the next roof dropped down to one storey: two high steps for him to somersault down, separated by a flick of his wrist and a flying baton. He landed on the asphalt behind two of the hoods - feeling the impact all the way up his spine - grabbed them by their collars and smashed their skulls together. The muscles across his shoulders sang at him, but didn't give him enough. Didn't matter – those two went down anyway. The third thug had sunk down next to a wall, the metal cylinder rolling beside him. That left the fourth, who turned around - his heartbeat high – and advanced with the resonating sliver of metal held low. The Devil stalked towards him, brushed the inept jab aside, catching the hand, twisting it out, shattering his nose and four front teeth with two punches, then grabbing the front of his shirt as he tried to stagger back. A quick pull forward drove an armoured knee into the thug's stomach, and, as he double further over, an elbow to the back of the neck sped his boneless crash to the ground.

But Matt still had company, for the first two had recovered their wits enough to not only rise but flank him. He cursed himself for being too slow and for letting his last victim drop, rather than propelling the unconscious body into them. At the very least, it could've served as a tripping hazard and bought him a couple seconds to avoid this fraught position. Nothing to do now but choose a direction – towards the thinner one – and throw his body into a flip. The boy was predictably confused by the acrobatics and froze with indecision, before buckling to the ground, yelling, clutching the knee shattered by the Devil's boot. Again, that left only one standing, and Matt jumped over the writhing figure on the ground, sinking into a half-crouch as he landed to avoid the viciously swung baseball bat aimed at his skull. He answered with a right cross into the thug's abdomen and immediately knew it wasn't good enough. His shoulder screamed, his fist sunk into a hard layer of fat and rebounded off the solid bands of muscle behind it. Matt aimed his left-hander lower - at the groin - twisting with it, knowing that nothing would prevent the downward rush of the bat connecting with his back, and turning it into as much of a glancing blow as he could. His bruised flesh spasmed and screeched, but his opponent's hands were now busy protecting and nursing his own genitals rather than holding the bat.

The rest was easy.

Matt made the second 911 call of the night, collected his billy club and jumped up to the nearest fire escape ladder, guiltily glad that he didn't have to pull himself up on his arms: his back was on fire. He couldn't keep the smile off his face though as he walked in the direction of his home.

He breathed hard, his temperature was way too high, he hurt in every muscle he ran his senses over, he had twisted his ankle landing that final salto, but none of it mattered. The days when he heard the cries of pain from his city, while his useless body froze in the clutches of memories, were now over. These assholes were going to jail, the shopkeeper was vindicated, and the news of the Guardian Devil's return would spread. This time – not a rumour, but a warning. ('And a challenge - a target,' his mind whispered – but, no, he would not think of that now; the depths of his nightmares was a large enough vault to house those thoughts.)

His senses alerted him in time to throw himself into a (clumsy) roll as a gun went off with a silenced retort, and a bullet chipped shards of concrete a foot from where he had been.

A poor shot.

Maybe.

His ears and nose picked up the heartbeat of the attacker, the soft rub and static crackle of a fleece hoodie, the smell of cordite and coffee and beer and dog. Castle. Who was calmly strolling towards him, the hand holding the .38 swinging at his side.

A surge of annoyance, bordering on anger, started filling Matt's chest.

"Did Karen call you to babysit me?"

"Nah... She got way too much faith in you. More than you deserve. You might wanna try returnin' that favor."

Chastised, Matt's hold on his emotions slipped further.

"If I need relationship advice, I'll ask. Why are you here?"

"Saw the shit show. What the fuck was that, Red? Four thugs and they nearly had you beat!"

"You need glasses, Frank. I took them out and now they are in police custody."

"Oh, that what you did? Here I thought your senses were on the fritz. You took that bat for a massage roller and put your back under it."

Matt's hands curled into fists. He reminded himself that he owed this man his life, but it was very hard to care behind the descending veil of rage.

He turned away, started walking. The voice followed, even though the man didn't, "You ain't ready. You'll get yourself killed in two weeks. That's a hell of a way to pay her back."

"I am as ready as I need to be."

"Fine. Prove it."

Matt heard the gun slide into its holster, the holster itself being placed on the ground. His back hurt. His pride hurt worse.

He turned, strode back, and swung.

"First mistake – you came at me and you ain't fast enough," Frank dodged the blow and stepped into Matt's space, forcing him to fall back blocking the counter punches. Matt shifted sideways, shoved Frank's extended arm out of the way, and aimed his fist towards Frank's temple but again couldn't adjust to Frank ducking under his hand and punching at his chest. His breath whooshed out leaving vacuum, but there was enough oxygen left in his blood to force himself to move the other way, driving his own fist forward and connecting with a jar he felt all the way to his elbow.

Frank stepped back, grunted and grinned, "Second mistake - you ain't got the strength," and then he bull-rushed the winded Daredevil, grabbing him around the waist, dumping him on the rooftop and driving his elbow into Matt's groin. The armour gave him some protection, but hardly all. The sudden burst of nauseating pain and the lack of air was enough to distract his senses from following Frank's hands, which located the nearby-laying gun, squirmed to the trigger, and jabbed its holstered muzzle to his neck.

"Third mistake - guns are still gonna win." He pushed off Matt, standing up, and added, "But I don't expect you'll learn that till you get your head blown off."

Matt rolled onto his side, forcing his lungs to expand and hoping his guts would stay inside. His ears registered the strolling footsteps heading across the roof to the stairway entrance, the door clanging shut behind them, but he was not interested in them. Their owner only intended to serve a lesson, not a beating, which he did – in spades. Enough to bury Matt's triumph and restore every doubt he hadn't allowed himself to feel. His rage born of pain and helplessness – the control over which he so painstakingly reassembled in recent months, and honed into the spearheading force for the Devil – once again turned its cyclonic force inwards. There was nothing unexpected in his failure. Indeed, he marvelled at how he thought it could've possibly turned out any different.

He pushed himself up to his knees, wincing, refusing himself permission to groan. Then he stood up, swayed, walked towards the edge of the roof and listened for the reverberations to tell him the distance to the next building, even though he knew these expanses like the back of his hand. He backed up, took a deep breath, ignored the way air seemed to turn into a nauseating wave inside his belly, thought about the fire-escape ladder, gritted his teeth and sprinted forward.

When he walked down the stairs into his apartment, Karen was at the bottom - the folds of her dress rippling in the breeze from the doorway, her worried heartbeat playing against his eardrums. She stepped aside to let him move past, laying a hand on his arm as he did, saying nothing. His anger and embarrassment bunched up inside his throat, and her hand slipped off as he stalked into the bedroom, flinging his mask to lie upside down on their bed.


	15. Chapter 15

_"For I hold you by your right hand, I the Lord your God. And I say to you, don't be afraid, I am here to help you."_ \- Isaiah 41:13

**08900**

The next time Matt ran into Castle was at Fogwell's Gym, and the pounding surge of blood-pressure almost made him believe that the perpetual blackness in front of his eyes turned red.

"What _the fuck_ are you doing _here_?"

Frank leant with his back against the boxing ring, his arms folded across his chest, a gym bag at his feet.

"Figured you could use a sparring partner."

"And you needed another ego boost?"

"Nah, it ain't my ego that wants babyin'. Ain't here for that."

"I'll ask you again, what are you here for?"

"I wanna know, Red, you there to get the job done, or just get your bones broke and head bashed in? Cause if you wanna play the sainted martyr, be my guest. Shit, maybe they'll light candles to you in your church on Sunday, after they stick what's left of you in the ground. That what you want?"

Matt stood stock-still, his mind once again on that merry-go-round of fury and shame, while Frank ramped up.

"…Or does this shit of a city still have its hooks in you so deep, you just gotta clean up its trash or you don't sleep at night? Cause then you'd better screw your head on straight. And that means having the guts to heal. To train. To take the fuckin' help, until you can do the job, not end as a useless smear on a fuckin' sidewalk."

Matt's fists and teeth clenched. He would've given almost anything in that moment to truly be as reckless as Frank was accusing him. He might've then allowed the rage to carry him long enough to land at least a handful of punches to Frank's smart mouth, regardless of the fact that he knew – even before he got dumped onto his ass on the roof - that Castle was right.

He wasn't ready.

Those kids…they did commit a crime and he did deliver them to the cops for their just comeuppance, but he beat them bloody, shattered countless bones; the one that was dropped by the billy club probably had a concussion to rival the store owner's, and he was still lucky compared to the others. Yet they _were _just kids, and, in the past when he had the strength, the agility, the speed to deliver knock out blows – they would've been recovering in their prison cells, not in a hospital's ER.

It was a fine line. A grey line - but wasn't his entire conception of Daredevil – the chosen meaning of his very existence – defined by the balance on that line? The line between judgement and vengeance; between the chance for restitution and death's negation of any kind of chance; between violence enjoyed for the justice it hastened, and brutality relished for its own sake with righteousness only a thin veneer. The line between an armoured punch and the clawed lash… It allowed no short-cuts.

Yet, he did take the short-cut with those kids - because he wasn't ready.

What was worse – what made him snarl and pace the floor, and beat his hands bloody against the leather punching bag – was the realisation that he could not get ready by himself. Not this time. He needed someone – like Stick; like Castle - and it was so tempting to believe that he would rather be bested and die than call on either of them, but what justice would that have served? Whose purpose?

After all, he had swallowed plenty a bitter pill over the last year - so what was one more indignity in the name of his own redemption and resurrection?

He dumped his own bag on the floor, crouching beside it, pulling out the protective hand wraps. He hesitated for one more second, then grabbed the back-and-shoulders brace and stripped the tee over his head. Deliberately focusing his senses on the sounds outside the gym and away from Frank, he did up the Velcro and pulled the shirt back on, then jumped up lightly onto the ring's canvas and ducked between the ropes.

"Surely, you got better things to do. Why are you doing this?" he tilted his head down towards Frank.

"Maybe could do with some hand-to-hand myself. Maybe don't wanna see Karen waste her time on a dead man."

The first statement was a lie; the second - wasn't.

Thick white gauze slid between Matt's fingers as he wrapped his wrists and knuckles, waiting for Frank to join him.


	16. Chapter 16

**_"_**_Carry each other's burdens, and in this way you will fulfil the law of Christ."_ – Galatians 6:2

**10000**

Karen handed the bag over to Castle with a reluctance that she knew was obvious and frustrating to him. So she was not surprised when he continued standing in front of her, feet planted at the stoic shoulder-width, gaze boring into her and waiting. She kept trying to swallow the doubt.

"You got somethin' to say, say it."

"He won't … accept it."

"Recon he is stupid enough to wanna fry in summer? Easy way for him to get killed. Even he gets that."

"No, not that. He will know he needs that. It's the other... He won't accept that sort of help. Not from … you."

Frank lifted the canvas strap and turned away, starting to walk up towards 54th street.

"Yeah he will," he threw over his shoulder.

Karen sighed. So much for not keeping secrets.

* * *

"What the fuck you doin', Red? Stop tryin' to meet force with force – you ain't got any!"

Matt knew Frank was goading him. He was also well aware that when his blood and frustration was up, Castle's jibes slid right under his skin and drew the intended errors. He preferred not to analyse the why though – simply accepted it as another part of his game that needed improving.

Instead of responding, he slipped sideways and deflected the punches coming towards him, controlling the space between them, keeping tension out of his own arms and his motions fluid. He waited for the moment of over-commitment on Frank's part, to get a large enough opening to drive a finishing strike through. Their hands flashed faster and faster – a senseless blur to any observer, but a precise chess game of air and skin to Matt.

The opening came, but it was from a misstep that screwed Frank's balance and dropped his guard enough for Matt to push in. Then Matt struck, using the mass of his whole body to transfer the energy from his fist into the network of nerves below Frank's right collarbone. Frank's arm dropped as a useless weight, further overbalancing him, and Matt unceremoniously helped him the rest of the way onto the canvas.

"Better?"

"Yeah. Much." – Frank rolled over onto his knees, hissing and flexing his arm. – "You need to cool off though. Look like a damn virgin on her first night."

Matt raised his eyebrow, but knew that Frank had a point: his body temperature was already at 100, and the grafted-on skin had no ability to produce the sweat needed to keep him cool enough. The constant need to monitor his temperature was something he had almost adjusted to, but to have to think about it in the midst of fighting was irksome, to put it mildly. Downright dangerous, if one took the glass-half-empty kind of view.

He grabbed his bag and headed for the cold shower. When he returned, Frank was sitting on the bench by the ring, a heap of heavy cloth by him – cloth that was quickly bundled and thrown at Matt. As soon as his fingers touched it, he knew what it was and he felt his temperature rising yet again.

"What were you doing with this?"

"Run your feelers over it, before you blow your top."

Matt skimmed his fingers over the cloth and frowned at the thin layer of gel-like padding he felt at the back of his suit. As he pressed it he was surprised to feel it growing cooler in response to pressure, instead of warmer from the heat of his skin.

"That shit is military grade. Used in Iraq. It'll keep you from cooking."

"Did you put it in?"

"Nah. Found your tailor - Potter. He ain't exactly an unknown. Introduced Micro to him. Once he stopped tryin' to beat our brains in, you shoulda seen how well the geeks got on, designing and shit. Got the suit to him this morning, and, yeah, before you ask – Karen was in on it. I didn't have to go breakin' and enterin' your pad. There's somethin' else on it."

Matt zeroed in on the slight hum of an electromagnetic field around the suit's waistline, and his fingers found the nub of the switch at the belt. He waited for Castle to elaborate, but nothing was forthcoming.

"You gonna tell me?"

Frank remained silent for several moments more before responding, "Flick that switch, I'll know where you are."

"And then what?"

"You get backup."

"You come in guns blazing? You know I won't let you kill."

Frank's smile did not touch the rest of his face, "Yeah, I got that. You call, we go it your way."

He moved his arm and something small split the air, to be snatched out of it by Matt's hand, the lines of frustration deepening on his face as his fingers skimmed the matchbox-sized rectangle.

"That'll tell you if I landed in some shitpile I can't shovel," Frank clarified, "Can patch it through to your phone."

Now it was Matt's turn to remain silent while he listened for Frank's secrets, but the Marine's heart was calm and steady, betraying no anxiety as he added, "I call - you play it the way you have to, Red. Seen you do it. Ain't askin' more'an that."

"You asking, or convincing?"

This time Frank genuinely laughed, "You got a woman and a home to go to, dontcha? You shouldn't need any more convincin' than that."

Matt walked over to the bench and sat down, absently rubbing the gadget with his thumb. His first –automatic – response was already fading and he wondered how authentic his resistance ever was. The ever-present need to dichotomise his life – to nominate the swirling shades as the black and the white and thus avoid drowning his soul in the grey – has slipped sideways yet again, tilted his axis, revealed a different side to the Punisher. Except – it hasn't. Not really. Frank simply took him into his Team, and kept the faith. Matt didn't delude himself, but he couldn't begrudge Frank for loving a woman whose ability to scrub at the grey and release the lustre beneath has now redeemed them both.

And what of that woman?

He thought of the warmth with which Karen thawed out his entire being, soothed the edges of the nightmares that still plagued his sleep, accepted – and with it, calmed - the raging Devil, even as she spurred Matt to fight it for the control of his essence.

He thought how returning to his apartment - after a day spent in the office with Foggy, or after a night haunting the rooftops – were now some of his favourite moments. Even if she wasn't there, her scent permeated the space, filling him, and he inhaled it knowing that soon his scarred arms and fight-swollen hands would be filled with her actual self, and his heart would beat to her pulse.

He thought, and terror stifled his air and chilled his blood, and he rejoiced in it for the unknown expanses of life that it promised behind the threat of blood-drenched loss and suicidal heartbreak.

He tried cursing himself for his foolishness, but all it brought to his face was a smile and a piercing desire to live while he could.

He knew he needed help in order to live; to be taught how to live outside of the concepts of sin and justice. He was slowly learning that this help did not have to come with a price, and gratitude did not have to come with guilt and shame.

Frank's heartbeat remained honest. So was his offer.

So was Matt's acceptance.


End file.
